


None But You, Part One

by hardlyfatal



Series: None But You [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate History, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Jane Austen Fusion, Alternate Universe - Regency, F/M, Love at First Sight, Regency, Regency Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-17
Updated: 2017-09-23
Packaged: 2018-12-30 21:45:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 27,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12117849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hardlyfatal/pseuds/hardlyfatal
Summary: Regency Westeros is at war. Jon Snow is a week from deploying to Essos, and Dany Targaryen is heartily sick of living off the patronizing charity of Westeros' greatest houses. The Tyrells are throwing a grand house party to introduce Margaery to the most eligible men in the kingdom, and Viserys wants Dany to snag one of them for herself... IF the one she snags is very highly born.





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, everyone! This story is VASTLY different from the last few. It is primarily a Dany/Jon story (with a strong Brienne/Jaime secondary pairing), AND set in the Regency era, with archaic language and customs used. However, I think if you give it a chance, you might find it enjoyable.
> 
> The aim of this story was to create something super-schmoopy and dramatic and angsty, in a Jane Austen/Pride & Prejudice type of setting. I went more by Persuasion than P&P, however. It is a gift for Bloomsbury, a very talented artist. She is not on AO3 but her tumblr can be found at http://bloomsbury.tumblr.com/. I encourage you to visit it, she posts lots of wonderful art of Jon/Dany and others!
> 
> Some things to know as we set out: 
> 
> 1\. Dany and Viserys are dispossessed nobles in the way of the French aristocracy after the Revolution banished the monarchy and became a republic; however, in Regency Westeros, the monarchy still exists. It is just the Targaryen dynasty that has been eliminated because reasons.
> 
> And much like many of those newly-homeless French nobles, Dany and Viserys have been slumming from one family to the next, tolerated more as pets and points of gossip than out of any real loyalty to the Targaryens. They usually stay two or three years at a given place before moving on, Viserys having become adept by this point at knowing when their welcome is outworn and he risks alienation of a House.
> 
> 2\. The kingdoms of Westeros are here rendered as duchies, ruled by dukes, with the exception of Dorne, which as always is a principality.
> 
> 3\. The war referenced is modeled after the Napoleonic campaign between France and England during the first two decades of the 19th century. Like that war, it takes place on a peninsula in a climate far removed from what those back home are used to. Officers buy commissions from the king for military service, and sell these commissions back when their term, or the war, is over (which is the origin of the term "to sell out"-- an officer could sell back his commission early but it was considered a shameful thing to do). 
> 
> 4\. R + L do not = J. In this story E + ? = J because I'm just not up to the challenging of handling the incest thing.
> 
> If you have questions about any terms used, please ask them in a review and I will answer it in the next chapter's author note.
> 
> Thank you very much for giving this story a try! I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it.

.

~*~

.

A discreet cough caught Dany’s attention, directing it away from the garment she was sewing.

“They’re awaiting you on the lawn, Your Highness,” said the footman who stood in her open doorway.

Dany was seated by the single window her room boasted; she looked out and saw the congregation of humanity starting to fill the vast lawn at the rear of the Highgarden estate. Ancestral seat of the dukes of the Reach, the place was quite grand, House Tyrell’s prosperity able to keep it in flawless condition.

Its manicured grounds were to be the site of most of this week’s house party, ostensibly to commemorate the entry of Westeros into the armed conflict in Essos. Dany personally felt its purpose was to bring together as many eligible bachelors in one place as possible, so the Tyrell daughter, Margaery, could have her pick of them.

And, just perhaps, so Dany might acquire one of Margaery’s leavings and thus vacate Highgarden permanently. It was the kingdom’s worst-kept secret that the presence of Dany and her brother, Viserys, was wearing on the magnanimity of the great houses of Westeros. Dispossessed of their lands and wealth, owning nothing more than their illustrious and worthless titles, the Targaryen siblings had spent the entirety of their lives taking advantage of the largesse and, frankly, guilt of those great houses.

It was an ugly life, but a necessary one, or so Viserys insisted. Dany thought that, while they had still been children, that might have been valid, but now that Viserys was four-and-twenty, and Dany herself eighteen, they should find ways of supporting themselves instead of living off of various titled families. She was not a bad seamstress, and rather good at trimming hats, as well. Her embroidery was quite fine, too. They could go to Oldtown or Lannisport or even Gulltown and she could find work at a shop.

Viserys, however, would have none of it. Dany privately thought it was because he had no particular talents or skills as she had. He declared it beneath them. She had begun trying to devise methods of earning some coins, thinking to hoard them until she had enough to leave Viserys behind and find her own way. Every new day spent as the pauper princess, as she knew herself to be mocked, was another fresh hell for her, and she was eager to leave it all behind to start again.

“Thank you,” she told the footman, and stood.

Dany removed her apron and looked down at what she wore: a white frock in the typical Empire style, high-waisted and flowing, of white calico printed with bunches of blue roses arrayed in stripes from top to toe. The scoop neck was modest. She wore a bandeau in the Myrish fashion around her head, to keep her hair from her eyes as she bent over her sewing. She decided to leave it and just fluffed up the silvery curls that tumbled around her face and down her neck, making their cascade seem artful instead of messy.

She folded her sewing— another shirt for Brienne— and left her room. She just touched foot to the last step when hard fingers wrapped around her arm and pulled her into the little alcove beneath the stairs.

“I’ve just heard that Lord Edmure Tully will be arriving tomorrow,” Viserys whispered in her ear. “Heir to the Duke of Riverlands. You must try to gain his attention. And Robb Stark, the earl of Winterfell, is arriving today. You couldn’t manage to pull Willas Tyrell—” (here, he glowered at her, as if the Tyrells’ reluctance to align themselves with the diminished Targaryens were somehow her fault) “—and you refused Jaime Lannister—” (that actually _had_ been her fault) “so there are few other eligible heirs to be found.”

“But—”

He hissed at her like a cat. “If you can’t hook one of them, the only one left is Robin Arryn.”

Dany sighed. “I will not marry a child.”

“You will marry whom I tell you to marry. If you do not have a proposal from either Stark or Tully by the end of the week, I will tell Jaime Lannister you have reconsidered and will accept him, or else I will offer you to Arryn.”

Dany stared up at him, her mind in turmoil. She loved her brother, she owed him everything for keeping her alive throughout her infancy and childhood, but sometimes she _hated_ him.

“I’m expected outside,” she said dully, tugging away from him.

Viserys released her, and she fled, rubbing her arm and blinking away her sudden tears, hoping that if anyone saw her, they would mistake it for a reaction to the bright summer sun.

The Tyrell ladies spotted her and waved to indicate she should join them.

“Your Highness, so good of you to join us,” murmured the dowager duchess, Lady Olenna Tyrell.

Dany took a deep breath to bolster her patience. “My brother wished a word with me as I was coming to you,” she said carefully. “I apologize for my tardiness.”

The old woman waved away her words. “You’re here now.”

Yes, she was. Dany forced a smile and aimed it at the others: current duchess Alerie Tyrell, and her daughter and the starring attraction of the house party, Margaery. They were all striking women, with hair the color of buckwheat honey and hazel eyes and sculpted cheekbones. Dany felt very out-of-place with them, with her pale hair and unusual eyes that stamped her a Targaryen at first glimpse.

If she were ever able to strike out on her own, her first task would be to dye her hair another color. What would look best, she wondered? She discounted the Lannister gold as too similar to her own platinum. Brunette, like the Tyrells? Redheaded, like the Tullys and various Stark children? Raven-dark like a Baratheon or a Martell? The idea of being another person entirely was very exciting to her.

“Shameless, that he should appear here!” hissed Lady Alerie. “I cannot approve of the Duke of the North’s actions. It is beyond endurance, having to be in the company of a…” She paused, clearly gathering her courage to continue on such a thorny topic. “…natural child.”

Her mother-in-law rolled her eyes. “You carry on as if you’d never met a bastard, you ridiculous woman,” she said, “when my brother’s sons spend more time with us than with their father. Ah, there’s one of them now, in fact.”

She gave a regal nod to her nephew, who had just stepped onto the expansive terraced lawn where the event was taking place. Garrett Flowers looked a little alarmed to have caught the notice of his formidable aunt, and hesitantly began to approach. She waved him away, and with an expression of relief, he sidled away toward where some of the younger gentlemen were availing themselves of the alcoholic beverages on offer.

“Those of us with delicate natures should not be forced to share company with symbols of wanton lechery,” Alerie pronounced with a sniff.

Dany turned so she could better study this grievous affront to Lady Tyrell’s demure sensibilities. Descending the marble stairs leading from the terrace to the lawn were two men, one tall with ruddy hair and the other a bit shorter and quite dark, his red military jacket proclaiming him to be an officer in His Majesty’s armed forces.

Lord Robb Stark, whom Dany had met before, was a handsome young man. He had none of the typical Stark coloring, nor did most of his siblings; only his younger sister had that black hair and gray eyes, it was said.

And, apparently, the bastard. His surname would be ‘Snow’, of course, but Dany wondered what his given name was. She did not think he _looked_ like a symbol of wanton lechery. He was not a terribly tall man, but well-formed, and showed his military uniform to best advantage. He had a handsome face with serious eyes that missed nothing as he swept them over the assemblage. When they passed over her, she could almost feel his gaze as a physical touch, the whisper of silk over her skin, and she was sorry when his regard moved on to the next person.

But then he looked startled, his well-shaped lips parting in surprise, and he redirected his gaze back to her. For a long moment, their eyes caught and held. Dany wondered what he saw; was it a too-pale, too-short, too-bosomy girl in a second-hand frock a year out of style? Or did he see the worthless princess who, with her brother, had flung herself upon the charity of yet another of Westeros’ great houses?

Ashamed, she turned back to face the other ladies, dragging her gaze from his to stare down at where she clasped her hands before her. They were not the smooth white hands of Margaery Tyrell, who used her own to great advantage while speaking, moving them with grace and drama to illustrate her words. Nor were they the strong capable hands of Dany’s closest friend, Brienne of Tarth, who wore her calluses with pride. And so she should, after having led the defense of her island home against the pirates who thought the Sapphire Isle would be a swift and easy victory.

No, Dany’s hands were rough from sewing clothing: her own, her brother’s, and Brienne’s. A roof and victuals she and Viserys might have been granted here in Highgarden, but that was the extent of the philanthropy shown them by House Tyrell. She had no maid to massage lotion into her sore palms and fingers, and the roughness brought on by needle-pricks and the rubbing of the crochet hook sometimes became so bad that she would snag the fragile silk of the much-darned stockings Margaery gave her after she was done with them.

“You shall have to get used to him, Mother, if I marry his brother as you wish,” said Margaery. Her sharp hazel eyes gleamed with satisfaction at the thought of her potential fiancé.

Dany felt irritated by the way they were discussing both the bastard and his brother, as if they were objects to be handled, placed decoratively and discarded once the Tyrells found no more worth in them, rather than people with hearts and minds. She herself had been a symbol of bygone times of an extinct empire, and a pawn played by the great Houses of Westeros, her entire life. She loathed it.

“It’s not as if he had any choice in the matter,” she thus found herself saying. “One can hardly blame a child for the sins of his parents. Should he not be judged for the quality of his character instead of the mistake of his blood? House Stark is known for its scrupulous honor. And was he not reared alongside the other children, all of whom have been praised for their excellence? I find it difficult to believe he would be so different from the rest of them simply because his parents were not wed.”

It was something she felt very strongly about, having borne the brunt of Westeros’ displeasure at the actions of her father. She was no more to blame for Aerys’ madness and cruelty than this Stark bastard was for his father’s inability to keep to his wedding vows.

Then Dany bit her tongue in punishment; _stupid, stupid,_ she chastised herself. They resided at Highgarden at the forbearance of Lord and Lady Tyrell, and she ought not contradict the duchess. What would she and Viserys do if they were informed they were no longer welcome? The memory of traveling over the countryside, carried on Viserys’ back until they were able to buy passage to Tarth, remained one of her worst, and she clasped her hands harder together to belay their trembling. She opened her mouth to apologize, to abase herself before Lady Alerie for her impertinence.

“I could not agree more, Your Highness,” said a pleasant male voice from behind Dany, and she spun to find Lord Robb Stark there with the much-discussed bastard brother himself. “It does you credit to express such an opinion.”

Dany felt her heart pounding in her chest. Eyes wide, she looked from one man to the other and back again. Both men watched her closely, Robb with gentle amusement and his brother with somber intensity.

“It does, doesn’t it?” asked Margaery with her customary light sarcasm. “We should not have been discussing such a thing, anyway. Please forgive us, Lieutenant Snow.”

“Of course, my lady,” the lieutenant said, taking the hand she held out and giving a crisp bow over it.

“Ah, my manners,” Margaery said. “I must introduce you.” She turned first to her grandmother, but then paused, her trademark smirk making an appearance. “But I must not forget my rules of precedence. Your Highness, this is Lord Robb Stark, Earl of Winterfell, and his brother, Lieutenant Jon Snow. Gentlemen, Princess Daenerys of the _former_ House Targaryen.”

Dany took a deep breath to contain her temper. She hated when people made a fuss over her lineage and titles. Not because she disliked them— she was quite proud of being of the ancient Targaryen line, and loved the lore proclaiming her family having descended from dragons— but because it was always done with such derision, an open joke among all the remaining houses. It was rather like a servant finding the bean in their slice of twelfth-night cake; made king or queen for the duration of the feast, everyone played mocking deference to them, but come the morning, it was back to their usual drudgery.

“I’ve had the honor of meeting His Excellency before. A pleasure to see you once again, my lord,” she said to Lord Robb, offering him a curtsy while he bowed over her hand. “And to make your acquaintance, Lieutenant.”

Then she turned to Lieutenant Snow— _Jon, his name is Jon_ — and held out her hand to him. When he took it, she had to bite her lip to keep back the little gasp that almost escaped her lips, because she felt the same little zing to touch him that she did after walking over a carpet in her stocking-feet.

Her curtsy was less graceful than its predecessor, because she did not lower her head as she ought to have, instead keeping her eyes fixed on Jon Snow’s. His bow was less graceful, as well, because nor did he lower his own head as he bowed over her hand. When he stood upright again, he withdrew the warm pressure of his hand, and Dany retracted her own, twining her fingers together in front of her once more.

“We have had the honor of meeting everyone else already, have we not?” Robb was asking the others, but Dany’s attention was caught by the way Lieutenant Snow had lowered his hand to his side, flexing it open and closed, as if he, too had received a shock. Dany stared down once more, fighting to keep her breath steady.

“Have you brought your wolf as well, Lieutenant?” asked Margaery. “Lord Robb had sent word he would be bringing Greywind with him while he visits. They are brothers, are they not?”

“Yes, my lady,” replied Jon Snow. “They shall be sad to part when I leave.”

 _His voice is lovely,_ Dany thought, with the intriguing broadness about his vowels she had noticed in those from the north.

“Where are you going?” she asked him.

“To fight in Essos, of course,” said Lady Alerie, looking pinched about the lips.

“Yes, Your Grace,” said Dany with exquisite politeness, “but I was asking to which location in particular Lieutenant Snow will be deployed.”

A glint of amusement appeared in the lieutenant’s eyes, but his face was blank as he replied, “I am not sure just yet, Your Highness, but it seems likely I will be stationed in either Yunkai or Astapor.”

“Such a long journey,” she murmured. “I hope you are a good sailor.”

“I get by,” he replied with a faint smile. “We sailed from Barrowton to Lannisport to get to Highgarden and I did not suffer too badly. Ghost, though…”

“Ghost?” Dany inquired.

“My wolf. Ghost did not enjoy his voyage.”

“I would like to meet him,” she said impulsively. “I’ve always wanted a pet.”

The lieutenant blinked in surprise, and the glint in his eyes warmed. “I’d be happy to introduce you, Your Highness.” He paused, and the glint grew mischievous. “But I beg you, do not call him a pet in his presence. He prefers to think of himself as my companion. If anything, _I_ am _his_ pet.”

Dany smiled to see he was capable of silliness in spite of his earnest appearance. He seemed taken aback by it, and she realized with chagrin that it was too big a smile, too toothy, not ladylike enough. She minimized it to something far more demure, with no teeth whatsoever, and was relieved when she saw Brienne striding their way.

Well over six feet in height, Brienne wore a very smart tailed jacket, identical to what the men were wearing, over a split skirt and gleaming black Hessians. Her hair was cropped short in the popular style, but not for her were the ringlets and curls most women coaxed forth; she simply raked her blond locks, almost as pale as Dany’s own, back over her head with impatience. In her hand, she carried a croquet mallet, rather more like a sword than sporting equipment.

“Hullo,” said Brienne when she reached them. She offered them all a bow, instead of a curtsy, which made the Tyrells look even more pinched than the arrival of the bastard had.

“How fares the croquet, Lady Brienne?” asked Margaery.

“We’ve just lost a few players to the sulks.”

She pointed her mallet toward where one of Margaery’s brothers, Loras, was striding away from the others. There were red patches of irritation on his cheeks, and his friend Renly Baratheon followed close in his wake. Renly appeared to be teasing Loras, if the narrow glances the latter was shooting the former were any indication.

“Loras is such a sore loser,” Margaery sighed.

“Anyone interested in a game?” Brienne asked. She pointed her mallet again at the remaining players clustered around the starting peg.

“I do not know how to play,” said Dany, eager to find an excuse to distance herself from the Tyrell ladies. She knew the moment the men left their little group, Lady Alerie would give voice to all the insults she was holding back, and probably add a few poorly-veiled ones about Dany, as well. “But I would enjoy it, I think.”

“Excellent! Anyone else?” asked Brienne. “Lady Margaery, Lord Robb?”

Margaery dragged her attention from where she had been flirting at the heir to the North.

“Indeed, no,” said she. “I was hoping to catch up with Lord Robb; it has been a year at least since I have seen him.”

“Though it has felt like two,” said Robb with admirable gallantry. Beside him, Margaery simpered in reaction. Dany lowered her gaze to keep from rolling her eyes.

“I haven’t played in years,” said Lieutenant Snow. “May I?”

“Of course!” said Brienne. She was the nicest person Dany had ever met, and would never turn away a person for his lack of birth. Dany smiled at her, the toothy smile, and Brienne gave her a confused look before returning it with one of her own.

“Very good!” Brienne said. “My lord, my ladies,” she said to the others, giving another short bow, and strode away, leaving Dany and Jon to follow at their leisure.

They shared an amused glance before speaking their farewells to the group and heading after her.

“Your Highness?” said Lieutenant Snow, holding out his elbow, intent on escorting her across the lawn to where the hoops had been set up and the others awaited.

Dany licked her lips nervously before sliding her hand under and around his elbow, resting it on his scarlet-clad forearm. That little thrill ran up her arm once more.

“I have never played croquet before,” she confided in him, “so I shall have to depend on you to teach me.”

“A duty I shall take seriously,” he replied, but when she glanced up to see if he were mocking her, there was only a tiny curve of his lips to indicate he was teasing. She did not enjoy being teased, but it was clear he meant it so gently that she could not take offense.

As they made their stroll toward the croquet pitch, he briefed her on the rules, which she felt were simple enough that even she should not make too bad of a muddle of them. Before they reached the others, however, Dany felt compelled to apologize to him for discussing his bastardy.

“I am sorry we spoke of your… unfortunate circumstance,” she said carefully, halting in the middle of the lawn so they could speak with some little privacy. She detached herself so she could face him. “It was poorly done, to gossip about you, especially within your hearing, though I did not know you were within earshot at the time.”

He looked at her without speaking for a few seconds, his dark gaze piercing, making her heart beat faster in her chest. She could _feel_ her pulse flutter in her neck, and hoped he could not tell the effect he had on her.

“As far as I can tell, it was them doing the gossiping,” Lieutenant Snow said at last, “and you being very decent in defending me.”

Dany drew in a breath. “No, I—”

“Brave you were, as well, to speak up against your hostess,” he continued, and there was knowledge of her own unfortunate circumstance in his eyes. “I’m not sure I deserve such a risk on your part, but I do appreciate it. Most people either pretend I’m not a bastard, or that I’m not there at all. And none defend me.” He quirked a little smile at her. “None but you, that is.”

“I’m not most people,” was all she could think to reply.

“No,” agreed the lieutenant with an inscrutable look. “You’re not.”

“You do deserve such a risk,” Dany blurted then. “People should not feel free to be so unkind.”

He studied her again. “And yet they do, all the time.”

She was coming to see that he was a man who considered his words before he spoke them. She liked that, but the anticipation she felt to hear what he would say was difficult to endure.

“If you find yourself unwelcome in the Reach, after today, apply yourself to my father at Winterfell,” he said at last. “He will welcome you without question.”

She blinked up at him, shocked. No one ever mentioned the Targaryens’ dire straits, though of course she and Viserys’ situation had been grist for the gossip mill from the moment of her birth. But it had not been done with any intent to humiliate her. He was just a scrupulously honest man, and did not believe in skirting around an obvious topic. After a lifetime of having to pick her way through the verbal minefields that were any and all conversations within Westeros’ aristocracy, to be able to just directly speak about things was… wonderful.

“Why have you never come to the North?” Lieutenant Snow asked then, and Dany realized with a flush of embarrassment that she had been lost in thought for some awkward moments of silence, staring witlessly up at his handsome face.

“My brother…” she began, and flushed. “Viserys has a horror of prolonged cold and has always refused to even consider the North.”

Left unmentioned were her brother’s disdainful comments about how boring and staid the Starks were said to be, all inaccurate Dany was realizing, if her interaction with Lieutenant Snow and her brief minutes with the pleasant Lord Robb were any hint.

The lieutenant nodded. “My offer stands, however. I will write to my father today, in fact, and let him know of the debt I owe you.”

“Ah.” Dany’s heart sank. She glanced down at where her fingers had knotted themselves together and said stiffly, “I did not do it to obligate you, Lieutenant.”

His eyes widened in surprise and then realization at what she had understood. “I did not mean it that way. Forgive me. I can be clumsy with my words, at times. I only meant… if you became distressed because your decency compelled you to defend me against Lady Tyrell…”

It was his turn to blush, it seemed. He looked away from Dany as he continued.

“Such decency should be rewarded and protected. I would offer even if you had done it for someone else, and not myself.”

“Thank you,” she said softly, unable to keep from touching her fingertips to his wrist for the scantest moment.

His gaze flew back to her and locked with her own. Dany felt her breath coming almost in pants from her parted lips.

“Dany!” called Brienne from the pitch, waving her long arms in an unladylike way that would make a Tyrell blanch. “We’re ready!”

Lieutenant Snow offered his arm once more. This time, as they walked, he placed his hand over hers, where it rested on his forearm, and Dany forced a swallow past the tightening in her throat.


	2. Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Punting is riding in a boat while someone stands on the flat back end of the boat and pushes it forward with a pole. It is similar to the gondolas of Venice.

.

~*~

.

When they arrived at where Brienne awaited them, it was to find that the other players, in addition to her friend, were several of the Lannister family: the heir to the Westerlands, and Dany’s recently disappointed suitor, Jaime; his younger brother Tyrion; and their niece Myrcella and nephew Tommen, the last two of whom were squabbling over who got to be red and who yellow.

“Tommen, you were red last time, so this time, you will be yellow and Myrcella red,” Tyrion said at last, facilitating the exchange of mallets. “Hello, Your Highness.”

“Lord Tyrion,” she said with a curtsy aimed at everyone. “Lord Jaime, Lord Tommen, Lady Myrcella. May I present to you Lieutenant Jon Snow?”

The lieutenant bowed correctly at everyone. They greeted him in return, with the elder Lannisters shooting Dany amused glances.

She had had quite a few dealings with them; she and Jaime were both close friends of Brienne, and thus thrown together when both in proximity to her. Also, Jaime’s father and Dany’s brother had been trying for weeks to persuade them of the wisdom of a marriage between them. She would not have protested overmuch, as Jaime was handsome and charming, and had been very courteous when making his proposal, and understanding when she asked for a few days to consider it.

But Dany had seen the pained expression on Brienne’s face when Dany had revealed Jaime’s offer. She had known then that there was no way she could marry the man her friend loved. His fondness for joking did tend to wear on her patience after a while, she told herself, and was swiftly over any pang of disappointment she might have felt.

Tyrion, too, was a character. He had made the most shocking proposition to Dany not ten minutes after meeting her, but in such a clever way she could not help but be entertained by it instead of offended. She had not had many dealings with the children, but they seemed pleasant enough, greeting her cheerfully once their little feud was over.

“I shall be green,” announced Jaime, “to match my pretty eyes, and Brienne shall be blue, to match hers.” He peered at Dany. “We don’t have violet to match yours, my lady… can you settle for being red?”

“I think Lieutenant Snow should be red,” she replied, “to match his coat.”

“Then you should be white, to match your hair,” said Tyrion, “and I shall be black, since I am the black sheep of the family.” His grin was razor-edged, and the glance Jon Snow shot him was one of commiseration; he, too, knew what it was to be an outsider.

Dany learned she was an indifferent croquet player, but very much enjoyed the time spent listening to the Lannisters bicker with each other and Brienne. Also enjoyable was her time spent with Lieutenant Snow, both talking with him and just watching him when she thought she could manage it without drawing attention to herself.

She liked his looks very much, the way his dark hair insisted on curling no matter how ruthlessly he tied it back, and the gentleness with which he spoke and touched her when they walked. It was a refreshing change from the loaded comments she fielded from the Tyrells and most everyone else, and the rough way Viserys would grab and pull and even pinch her when he was displeased with her, which seemed to be most of the time. She had had to give all her gowns long sleeves, no matter the season, to cover up the little bruises he left up and down her arms.

Jon Snow would never pinch bruises onto her arms, she knew.

It also turned out that Dany was also a terrible croquet player, to her chagrin, but the others just laughed it off. They played a second game after that, and she found herself improving a little, but she still came in last. Her pretended pout made them all laugh. Well, all except for Lieutenant Snow, who just stared at her mouth until she felt quite breathless and Jaime started laughing at them (but would not reveal why).

Dany knew why. She was not a stupid girl. She thought it ironic that Jaime thought himself so perceptive but was so oblivious when it came to Brienne. She wondered if he even realized that he cared for Brienne in a way besides friendship, or that Brienne was languishing for love of him.

Tyrion was aware, however, and several had been the times Dany and he had shared rueful glances about the situation.

_Ah, love was a difficult matter._

Dany had no illusions about her own aspirations in that direction. She knew she was to marry well, as high as possible, no less than a ducal heir. As they ended their croquet game and moved along toward where an enormous picnic had been laid out, the Earl of Winterfell caught Dany’s eye and smiled. It was said that the Starks were the most decent of the realm’s great houses, and his parents and siblings had only ever treated her kindly, but that might have been because she and Viserys had never flung themselves at the mercy and hospitality of the North.

If appearances were to be believed, however, it seemed that Robb’s interest had been acquired by Margaery. She clung to his arm, and his hand covered hers, in the same manner of Dany herself with Lieutenant Snow. Margaery, too, was gazing up into Robb’s handsome face with starry eyes. Dany found herself glad for it, because the idea of being married to Robb no longer attracted her as it might once have. She did not think she could bear to see Lieutenant Snow on a frequent basis when she was his brother’s wife. The idea bothered her considerably.

Lieutenant Snow did not ask for her company at luncheon, precisely, but it felt very natural for them to remain partnered throughout the meal. He should have looked stiff and ridiculous, sitting on a blanket, and indeed various of the other gentlemen appeared less-than-comfortable, but he just removed his saber, placing it carefully to the side, and affected a casual cross-legged pose that, frankly, Dany envied him the ability to do. She was forced to sit with her legs primly curled to the side.

Brienne, on Dany’s left, did not bother with primness; she, too, sat cross-legged, steadily emptying the plate in her lap. At one point, she leaned over and whispered, “Got another shipment coming. Should be a big one. We can both use it, eh?”

Dany nodded happily. “I’ll be ready.”

Brienne’s ever-optimistic father sent his daughter a new wardrobe with each season. Brienne, in turn, handed everything over to Dany. All items with too-feminine prints, Dany repurposed into her own clothing. In return, Dany would turn anything with plainer fabrics into the split skirts, mannish shirts, and tailored jackets Brienne preferred. Whatever was left over, she sewed into garments for Viserys. With the autumn finally arriving, this new wardrobe would be stuffed with warmer linens and even some light wools rather than the cottons and silks Dany had converted for the summer.

When she looked back at Lieutenant Snow, however, it was clear he had heard Brienne’s words. He looked confused and a little concerned. She wished she could explain to him that there was nothing to worry about— they were not smuggling or doing anything remotely illicit— but that would mean revealing her dependence upon charity for the very clothes on her back, and she found herself reluctant to humiliate herself before him even further, after their earlier discussion.

Doubtless he would learn the full extent of her poverty soon enough, but she would like to enjoy his company without his pity for as long as possible.

When the meal was over, Dany was reluctant to part from Lieutenant Snow, and she thought— just perhaps— he might feel the same. He had a very direct but tender way of looking into her eyes, as if he were thinking profound things but did not dare to put voice to them. She wanted to let him know that she would like it if he dared; she would like it very much, indeed. She, too, had many things she would have liked to tell him.

Soon enough, however, the women were called away to rest before needing to dress for dinner, and away they all progressed to their respective rooms. She spent the resting period sewing, and then chose to wear an evening gown of sarcenet in palest green with silver vines and leaves she had embroidered around the round décolletage. It was painfully simple, and she prayed she would not attract too much attention in it. Lady Alerie was none too thrilled with how Dany’s unusual coloring and shapely figure seemed to distract the men from Margaery’s willowy slimness.

Dinner passed quickly; she was seated between Renly Baratheon and Loras Tyrell and underwent much tedious conversation with them until, blessedly, the meal was over. Musical entertainment was planned in the conservatory, after that, and the evening was spent listening to various of the young ladies tormenting their respective instruments.

Dany had not the opportunity to speak with Lieutenant Snow again, having been steered to a particular seat by Lady Olenna herself. A sterner duenna could not be imagined, and Dany was forced to be on her best behavior until, blessedly, all were excused to escape to their rooms for the night.

She skipped breakfast the next morning and remained closeted in her room so as to finish her current sewing project: a shirt for Brienne. Once the last stitch was placed, she found her friend’s maid and handed the garment over with instructions to launder and iron it.

Then she pondered her next project: Brienne could always use another split skirt, but Dany herself was in need of a new evening gown, if she were expected to socialize with eligible gentlemen for the duration of the house party.

She pulled a length of watered silk in palest pink from her drawer of hoarded fabrics. What Brienne’s father had been thinking in selecting such a shade for his daughter, Dany would never know. It would make poor Brienne look as pale as a wraith, haunting Highgarden in knee-high Hessians and a scowl. It would not be much more flattering on Dany, equally pale, but she had no choice in the matter and so would make do with what she had.

The foot of hem she cut from the skirt went into replacing the short puffs at the shoulders with long, close-fitting sleeves. There was enough left over to line a rose-pink velvet spencer she had planned…

She occupied herself until quite late in the morning and voices on the terrace below her open window indicated it was time for luncheon. Dany put away her sewing, washed her face and hands, and went to join the others, feeling famished.

She had just caught sight of Lieutenant Snow standing with his brother, Robb Stark, when Margaery waved her over to join her, her parents, Renly, and Loras. Dany joined them, hiding her reluctance, and sat quietly, her attention on her plate. She ate steadily and let the conversation— which seemed to consist entirely of barbed quips back and forth between all the other parties— float over her instead of participating.

“Don’t you agree, Your Highness?” asked Margaery, and Dany lifted her head to find that not only were the others all watching her, intent upon her response, but the Earl of Winterfell and Lieutenant Snow stood beside the table, as well. As she blinked, trying hard to orient herself within the conversation, the two newcomers took the remaining empty seats: Robb next to Margaery and, to Dany’s terrified delight, Lieutenant Snow at her very own side.

As she waited for Dany’s response, Margaery speared a single berry from her plate and tucked it neatly into her mouth. Her meal consisted of only a single vol-au-vent and a narrow sliver of melon.

Dany looked down at her own plate; even half-empty, it held the remaining half of a good-sized sandwich, _two_ vol-au-vents, and she still had an entire separate bowl of melon and berries to eat, as well. She pushed the plate a bit away, feeling piggish in comparison to Margaery’s sylphlike slenderness.

“Apologies,” she said with a weak smile. “I was woolgathering.”

“I _said_ ,” began Margaery, very pleasantly, which meant she was annoyed, “that it would be lovely to go punting, would it not?”

One of the many terraces of Highgarden was, in fact, a moat, the relic of a more martial time. Spring-fed, it was used more for leisure than protection these days. Its cool green waters looked inviting, especially when the summer days were very warm.

“Oh, yes, completely,” Dany agreed. “It sounds just the thing.”

A nudge at her arm caught her attention, and she looked down to find Jon pushing the plate back toward her, implicitly urging her to finish. She blinked at him; he nodded and gave her his little smile. Tentatively, she began to eat once more.

Margaery seemed satisfied that Dany had involved herself sufficiently and returned to trying to dazzle Robb Stark into proposing to her. Her parents departed to mingle with their other guests, Loras and Renly went back to flirting with each other, and that left Dany to speak with Lieutenant Snow.

She offered him a smile, not knowing what else to do, and he returned it with what she was coming to learn was his own customary smile: just a quick flash of teeth, and it was gone. She found it rather endearing.

“You said, yesterday, that you would like to meet my wolf,” he said once her plate was empty. “Are you still interested?”

He stood and held out a hand to help her up. Once on her feet again, rather closer to him than she had expected to be, Dany could detect the scent of pine and fir trees on him, along with a freshness she could not place. The urge to bury her nose against his shoulder was strong, but all she said was, “Yes, please.”

But she could hardly go traipsing around, alone with an unrelated man.

“Ah, there’s Brienne,” Dany said with relief, and went over to where her friend sat, yet again, with the Lannisters. “Lieutenant Snow has kindly offered to introduce me to his wolf. Would you join us?”

“Yes, let’s go see the wolves!” Jaime said, inviting himself along, just grinning when Brienne rolled her eyes at him.

“Will Ghost let me pet him?” Dany asked Lieutenant Snow as they left the house in the direction of the stables.

She was exquisitely aware of Brienne and Jaime a mere step or two behind them, and though she and Lieutenant Snow were only touching where her hand rested on his arm, with inches of space between them everywhere else, she felt as if she were observed being inappropriate with him.

“I’m never sure who he’ll take a liking to,” said the lieutenant. “But he’s generally an excellent judge of character.” He slanted a glance at her. “As are you,” he added, so quietly she almost could not hear him. Behind them, Brienne and Jaime were bickering again, and Dany prayed they could not hear him, either.

“Why do you say that?” she breathed.

“I can tell that you do not like the Tyrells,” he replied, “and how eager you are to get away from them when you can.”

Well, she _had_ been, but that was far from the only reason she had agreed to play croquet with him, and then have luncheon with him, and now was going to meet his pet with him. She was not about to reveal any of that, however.

“Yes,” she admitted. “Lord Willas and Lord Garlan are not bad, I suppose, but the rest… they are very sly, and I dislike how sharp they are about others.”

“Robb is considering marrying her,” he commented. “But he is worried about having to deal with the rest of the Tyrells for the remainder of his life.”

“I would be worried, too,” she said. “I’ve already turned down offers from Lord Loras and Lord Garlan both.”

Viserys had not been best pleased by what he perceived as a slight— Dany should have the heir, not one of the spares, he felt. But Dany knew that the Tyrells would never permit her to be the next duchess of the Reach. They permitted the Targaryen siblings to live at Highgarden so they could offer choice tidbits of gossip about how low the prince and princess had fallen in a single generation, and feel magnanimous about their own generosity.

The lieutenant blinked in surprise. “Have you received many offers?”

“Oh, yes, many,” she said easily. “But they’ve all been younger sons, and my brother is determined that I shall be a duchess. So far I’ve been asked by the youngest Baratheon, both younger Tyrells, Prince Oberyn, both younger Greyjoys _and_ the Duke of Pyke’s younger brothers, besides. And heirs to more _minor_ houses than I can recall the names of.”

“I beg your pardon,” said Jaime from behind them, his tone injured, but his grin was wide. “I am a ducal heir, and you turned me down flat.”

“You do not seem too upset at my rejection,” Dany told him, laughing over her shoulder.

“I shall somehow persevere,” he shot back, “but out of curiosity, why _did_ you refuse me? I’m young, still have all my teeth, and some women feel I’m extremely handsome.” He paused to elbow his companion in the side. “Not this wench, though. She’s immune to my charms.” He sighed, pretending to be wistful. “Alone of all her kind.”

They all stopped, Dany and Lieutenant Snow turning to face them. Beside him, Brienne’s face was an utter picture: surprise, pain, dread. She was doubtless worried about how Dany would reply. Surely Brienne knew she’d not reveal anything?

“I like you, Lord Jaime, but I don’t _love_ you,” was what she settled for saying. “You deserve to be loved by your wife, don’t you agree?”

His humor faded, replaced by an expression of… hunger? Longing? Dany had the oddest feeling that he was battling back an emotional reaction. But then he was laughing again.

“Doubtful I’ll have that luxury,” Jaime said, “but thank you.” He took her hand and pressed a kiss to it, a genuine smile lighting his face.

Dany chanced a look at Brienne, who looked, frankly, miserable. Not wanting to call attention to it, she faced forward once more and continued toward the stables.

“They love each other,” Lieutenant Snow whispered when they were a goodly bit away.

“Yes,” she whispered back, not surprised at his perception. “You won’t tell anyone?”

“No.” He covered her hand, on his arm, with his own again. “Why can they not marry? Is it her rank?”

She sighed. “Isn’t it always?”

“ _Is_ it always?”

“Seems to be, doesn’t it?” She glanced up at him and found him watching her. She blushed and turned her eyes back to the stables as they approached. “When it comes to dynasties, blood trumps love every time.”

As she said the words, a sick feeling formed in her stomach. She knew the futility of spending time with Jon Snow. She knew that nothing could ever come of it. She knew she should leave him, right there in the doorway of the stables, should go back to the house and make excuses for why she could no longer be in the same room with him, and never speak with him again.

Her life was not her own. It never had been. But, oh, could she not pretend, just for a little while, that it was? That she had the right to care for a man with no regard to his standing or station? Then, once she was married to some high-born lordling who stood to make her a duchess one day, she could trot out her brief little happy memories and cheer herself up.

“I don’t believe that,” said Lieutenant Snow, a note of stubbornness in his voice, Dany was diverted to hear. “There must be a way.”

“If you can find one, I would very much enjoy learning your method.”

He pushed open the stable door and stepped aside to let her precede him in.

“A skeptic,” he said, amused. “I can see you will be difficult to convince.”

“Ah, but won’t the victory be all the sweeter for the challenge?” Dany could not resist tempting him. She knew well the game, how to flirt, how to be alluring. But this time, her goal was not a wedding proposal from an heir, but a connection of the heart. Ill-fated, yes, but irresistible.

In the dim interior of the stable, the lieutenant’s eyes were shadowed, dark, with a soft gleam reflecting the scant light.

“I don’t think it’s possible,” he said hoarsely. “To be sweeter.”

Dany’s breath came faster. He was so close, only inches separating them, and the smell of fir and pine from him was making her dizzy in the most delicious way.

Then a grumbling sort of sound came from a stall toward the far end of the stable, shattering the fragile little spell that had come over them.

“That’s Ghost,” he said. “Let’s go make his acquaintance.”

She accompanied him to the stall and stood back while he opened it. A pure white wolf sat there, red eyes vivid despite the stable’s gloom. He was the size of a pony, and his gaze locked with hers while he got to its feet. Dany held her breath while he stared at her, then took a step forward.

“Princess Daenerys,” said the lieutenant, “this is Ghost.”

“Hello, Ghost,” she said, and slowly held out her hand for the creature to sniff. His nose was cold and wet as it snuffled over her fingers, and then he rubbed his head into her palm. Sitting once more, he let his tongue loll out in a big doggy grin.

Dany smiled, as well, lifting glad eyes to Lieutenant Snow’s, beaming at him as she stroked over Ghost’s head and fondled the soft triangles of his ears. “He likes me!”

“Did you doubt he would?” Jon Snow reached out to pet his wolf as well. “I didn’t.”

“I haven’t met a wolf before,” she replied. “I didn’t know what to expect.”

“Just like you Targaryens are called dragons, we Starks are called wolves,” he said. “And I like you, so I knew Ghost would, also.”

Dany blinked, surprised to hear him state it so plainly, even as it delighted her.

“I mean— er—” Lieutenant Snow looked alarmed, and bashful, and even in the low light, she could see the slashes of pink across his cheekbones.

“I like you, too,” she murmured. “ _And_ Ghost.”

He smiled at her, then, relieved and happy, and it was a smile of such sweetness that she had to blink back sudden tears.

_This,_ she told herself, _was the worst idea she_ _’d ever had._ She was dooming herself to heartache. He would leave for the war, and she would marry someone else, and she’d spend the rest of her life yearning for a man she could never have.

And still Dany moved her hand on Ghost’s head until it brushed Jon’s. He twined his fingers with hers, his eyes never leaving her face.

“Are you done, Your Highness?” asked Brienne from the stable door, her keen notice missing nothing in her friend’s interaction with the lieutenant.

“Yes,” Dany said breathlessly. She snatched her hand back, glancing at him one last time, taking in how his dark eyes seemed almost to be burning, and then walked rapidly away.

She squeezed past Brienne in the doorway and headed for the house, ignoring Jaime standing there and watching with great interest. She walked faster and faster until she was almost running, her skirts flapping around her ankles. She did not stop until she had bolted up the stairs to the little bedroom assigned to her.

Locking the door, she flung herself onto her bed and closed her eyes.

Her hand still tingled from where it had made contact with his.

_Jon,_ she thought. _Jon Snow. Lieutenant Jon Snow._

Then she thought, _Mrs. Snow. Mrs. Daenerys Snow. Dany Snow._

Oh, it was ridiculous. Far too soon. Completely lacking in substance. A pair of days, a very few conversations, some innocent hand-clasps, were not nearly enough. A fine pair of eyes and an excellent form in a dashing uniform… the romance of falling for the Stark family’s black sheep…

She pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes. She could not do this. _She could not._

Dany chanted it to herself, over and over, until the first bell chimed to say it was time to ready herself for dinner.

But still she was no closer to believing it than before.


	3. Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I'm glad you're enjoying this story, it's been fun to write. I'm excited about your reception of part two, which is 95% complete. I'll start posting that the day after I finish publishing this one, which has 2 more chapters after this one.
> 
> I keep thinking up things you might need to know to best understand the world of this story as I've written it:
> 
> 1\. Jaime and Cersei have nothing to do with each other besides being siblings who aren't fond of each other, in the same manner of Cersei with Tyrion.
> 
> 2\. Joffrey doesn't exist because he's awful.

.

~*~

.

Dinner that evening was unexceptional; after it, there was dancing. Viserys snatched away Dany’s empty dance card the moment she stepped into the ballroom, replacing it with one that he had taken the liberty of filling for her, with every space containing the name of another eligible gentleman.

Willas was inflicted upon her again, though fortunately just for the opening minuet. Renly Baratheon put her through the rigors of an especially energetic scotch reel. The Earl of Winterfell was supposed to have partnered her in the first waltz of the evening, but promised himself instead to a particular friend of his sister’s, a Jeyne Westerling, and begged Dany’s forgiveness most fervently.

“But perhaps my brother will make amends for me?” Robb asked, turning to Lieutenant Snow. From the corner where he watched, glowering, Viserys ground his teeth but short of unpardonable rudeness, there was no way he could redirect Dany to a more suitable partner for the all-important waltz.

“It would be my honor,” the lieutenant said, holding out his hand.

Dany let him lead her to the floor. At the first introductory note, she curtsied to him, and he bowed in return. Then they assumed the pose. She looked up into his face, settling her hand on his shoulder at the same moment his found her waist, and it felt as if they were moving into an embrace.

For a moment during which she was convinced her heart stopped, she thought he might close the few inches between them and kiss her. But then he took her free hand in his, and the music began in earnest. The slight pressure of his hands suggested she move with him, and she glided into the first steps of the waltz.

It was not a dance she cared for, as a rule: she did not like having to move backwards as the female half must do, needing to place her trust in her partner not to be steered awry. But her partners usually bullied her around the dance floor with more enthusiasm than skill, keeping her in a state of hyper-alert terror that she was about to either careen into another couple or trip over her own feet, tumble over, and break a limb.

Nor did she enjoy being in such close quarters to them, who invariably tried to take advantage of their proximity to either press their fronts to hers or slip their hands far lower from her waist than they ought. If she had a golden dragon for each time, during a waltz, that her bottom had been massaged like bread dough, she’d have enough money to support herself and Viserys for a year quite nicely, she often thought.

Lieutenant Snow, of course, did none of those things. His touch on her was light but sure, and he did not make any part of himself graze against her chest or thighs. The delicate pressure he put on her hand and waist to steer her through the steps was both deft and gentle, a suggestion rather than a command, and for the first time, Dany understood of the allure of the waltz.

It was a subtle yielding of female to male, a graceful submission from one to the other, for only so long as she permitted, and _if_ he followed her rules. It was the placement of herself in his care, with the belief that he would take seriously his duty to guide her safely through the space. It was, she realized suddenly, a distilled concentration of the dynamic of love.

And she knew, just as suddenly, that she was safe with Jon Snow to lead her through the waltz, that even though she could not see where they were going, she could trust him to protect her and ensure she felt nothing but the pleasure of the music and the movement of their bodies, without fear of him asserting himself upon her in ways she had not agreed to.

They fit well against each other, her height perfect to peek over his shoulder. Though they both wore gloves, the heat of his hands felt like it was scorching her. His shoulder, under her fingers, was broad and warm. Thrills spread out from the spot at her waist where his palm lightly rested.

She had been unable to look up at the lieutenant so far, being nervous to have his face so close to her own, and so had confined her focus to his neckcloth. Simply tied, it wrapped around a throat that was, perhaps, a bit too sun-bronzed for aristocratic elegance, but which gave her the shocking urge to press her nose to his Adam’s apple and inhale his scent.

The intensity of her longing to do so made her stomach twist into a tight knot. She lifted startled eyes to his and found his gaze fixed upon her so intently that the next twist of excitement took not only her stomach but her entire chest, as well.

Dany realized then that her perception had narrowed to only the two of them, the rest of the world receded to a dim blur. Awareness of everything else rushed back in a second, making her gasp a little at how busy and bright it was around them, all whirling silken skirts and flaring coat-tails as the dancers spun about, and gleaming candle-light overhead.

Then she saw how they were being closely observed. Some, such as Brienne and Jaime, watched them with gentle amusement, as if they understood some elusive mystery but were letting Dany figure it out for herself. Others, like various Tyrells still scandalized by the presence of a bastard in their immaculate home, looked as if they held lemon slices— or worse— in their mouths.

And then there was Viserys. She was not sure precisely which sin she had committed, but judging by the expression on his face, she was going to suffer for it. Taking a deep, steadying breath, she sought to mitigate whatever damage she had caused.

“We are supposed to converse while dancing,” she murmured, her tone light but sounding a bit too breathy for strict propriety. “It would be seen as impolite if we just stare at each other in silence the entire time.”

“I do not talk much,” said Lieutenant Snow. “Forgive me.”

“Nor do I,” Dany replied, “so there is nothing to forgive. But we must find a topic to discuss.” She thought for a moment. “What shall you be doing in Essos?”

“My regiment is a light dragoon,” he said. “I expect I will lead cavalry charges.”

“Against the Dothraki?” They were fearsome warriors, if primitive, and known for their horsemanship. “You must promise to be very careful.”

It was a bit of a forward thing to say, especially to a man she had known only two days, but Dany found herself meaning it quite a lot. It would be terrible if he were injured; a feeling of dismay at the idea sat in her belly like a stone.

“I promise,” said the lieutenant, catching her gaze with his own. Dany again had the feeling that, had they been alone, he might have kissed her, and oh, how she wanted him to. She shocked herself at the impropriety of the thought, and averted her eyes as she felt herself blush.

“Dancing is warm work, isn’t it?” she asked, somewhat desperately, in an attempt to camouflage her pinkened cheeks.

“Yes,” was all he said, but when their gazes met again, his was tender, knowing, but not amused at her expense. She cast her mind about for something else to talk about, but the music tapered out and closed, drawing their dance to an end.

“Ask me for the next waltz,” she blurted.

He blinked at her, his lips parted in soft confusion. “My lady?”

“Ask me!” she whispered urgently.

“…will you save the next waltz for me?”

“Yes,” she said right away. Then, belatedly, “…thank you.”

Aware that new couples were coming onto the dance floor for the next dance, she curtsied to him, and he bowed to her, and they stared awkwardly at each other another second more before each turning away and heading off the floor in opposite directions.

When she arrived at Brienne’s side, her friend just gave her a long, thoughtful look. Jaime and Tyrion seemed to be having trouble holding back a considerable amount of laughter.

“After watching you and the lieutenant together, I feel like I should smoke a cigar,” he commented.

“I don’t know what that means,” Dany said, bewildered, but Brienne, who had spent more time around men and was better aware of their more earthy jokes, went pink.

“Don’t,” she chastised him.

“You won’t dance with me,” he said cheerfully, “so I have to amuse myself somehow.”

Brienne just rolled her eyes. She did not dance, period, and never would.

“Viserys looks as if he would like nothing more than to set the world on fire,” she said to Dany while eyeing her friend’s brother, who indeed seemed about to emit curls of smoke from his nostrils. “Be careful.”

“That was not my fault,” Dany protested. “You were there; Winterfell begged off and offered Lieutenant Snow as a replacement. I had nothing to do with it.”

“Fair Brienne speaks of how you and the lieutenant stared at each other instead of engaging in empty chatter as we are supposed to, Your Highness,” said Tyrion helpfully. “The way you look at each other seems more likely to set the world on fire than the force of your mad brother’s rage.” He glanced at his own brother. “I feel like I should smoke a cigar, too, after that.”

He gestured to the French doors open to a balcony, then patted his breast pocket before extracting two cigars and waving them at Jaime.

“Shall we?”

With a smirk, they ambled off toward the balcony, leaving the ladies together.

“I wish someone would explain what that means,” Dany muttered crossly.

“Oh, no, Viserys is coming this way,” said Brienne. “Quick, who is your next dance with?”

Dany glanced down at her card. “A mazurka with Garlan Tyrell,” she said with a groan, then groaned again as she saw him bearing down upon her. Even during a dance as brisk as a mazurka, the garrulous Garlan would manage to bombard her questions and banal observations that made it hard for her to concentrate on the steps, resulting in her making errors more than she’d like.

“Better Lord Garland than your brother,” said Brienne, laughing.

“Such a lovely sound,” Lord Garlan said, arriving just before Viserys. “You must promise me a dance sometime, my lady.”

Brienne only smiled. “I let Her Highness do all my dancing,” she said. “I’ll just… enjoy… the company of Prince Viserys.”

But the look she gave when Viserys arrived, just as Garlan was leading Dany to the dance floor, was doleful. Dany bit her lip to keep from grinning.

As expected, Lord Garlan not only kept her pulse hopping but managed a lively stream of conversation the entire time. By the time the dance was over, Dany was quite thankful, and hopeful of a chair and some cool lemonade.

To her immense relief, as Garlan led her from the floor and bowed over her hand one last time, she saw Viserys leading his own partner into a quadrille. Dickon Tarly came to claim his dance with her, but she begged off, pleading exhaustion and the need to sit. After he’d gone, she stuffed her dance card into a potted plant and confiscated Brienne’s empty one.

After the current quadrille, there was a cotillion, and then the second waltz. That gave her at least fifteen minutes before she could dance with the lieutenant again. Watching for when Viserys was facing away from her during the quadrille, she nudged Brienne with her elbow, and they scarpered to the balcony, willing to endure foul-smelling cigar smoke if it meant some fresh air and less scrutiny from gossip-minded individuals.

“Oh, why don’t they put seats out here,” Dany moaned once outside, waving a hand in front of her face to ward off the smoke. Tyrion took care to wave his cigar as close to her nose as he could reach, giggling at her glare. “Instead of vexing me, you should be getting me some lemonade like a gentleman.”

“Never claimed to be one,” said Tyrion with an airy wave of his cigar.

A polite cough behind them had Dany turning to find Lieutenant Snow standing there… with two glasses of lemonade.

“You looked thirsty,” he said with a tiny smile.

“I am,” she said, smiling up at him. He handed over one glass and she took it gladly. He offered the second to Brienne, which seemed to startle her, since most men rather forgot she was a lady.

“Thank you!” she said, her tone very pleased, and smiled brightly at the lieutenant.

“I brought you lemonade not a half-hour ago,” grumbled Jaime, and was ignored.

“Now if you could only bring Her Highness a chair, her life would be complete,” Tyrion commented, and finally stubbed out his cigar on the exquisite marble of the balcony railing before tossing it carelessly out into the darkness.

Lieutenant Snow gave Dany a look that made her wonder if he actually would drag a chair out onto the balcony.

“He is joking,” she hurried to say. “Not very well, but he does try.”

In the ballroom, the quadrille had ended and the cotillion had begun. Dany edged away from the door, into the corner of the balcony, to keep Viserys from spotting her.

“So, Essos,” said Jaime to the lieutenant. “I’ve decided to see what trouble I can stir up over there, myself.”

His brother and Dany stared at him. Brienne blanched.

“You never mentioned,” said Tyrion, frowning.

“That’s a… surprising choice,” Dany commented. What was he thinking? He was a ducal heir. If he died in battle, Tyrion stood to inherit the Westerlands, and… “Your father will never permit it.”

Brienne blinked furiously, clearly trying to hold back tears. “No,” she whispered. “You can’t.”

Jaime carefully avoided her gaze. “My father has nothing to say about it. I’ve already purchased my commission.”

“But why, Jaime?” asked Brienne, her voice barely audible.

“Because if I’m in Essos, I can’t be forced into an engagement with anyone.” He tried to smile. “Don’t carry on so, wench. I’m assured I’ll be deployed in an administrative capacity to Tyrosh or Pentos, both only a few days’ sail from Tarth.”

Dany slipped her hand into Brienne’s, gazing up at her friend in concern. She knew how Brienne struggled with her feelings for Jaime, battling insecurity about her looks and desperately afraid that learning of her affections would alienate him as a friend. Dany had tried many times to convince her that Jaime cared just as passionately for her, but Brienne was as stubborn as she was convinced no man could ever love her, her plainness too great an obstacle to overcome.

So, too, was she worried for Jaime, who was still a fine man, for all that he was mostly a nuisance with a questionable sense of humor.

Dany felt a touch at her back, and realized that Lieutenant Snow had taken a step closer and placed his hand so it barely skimmed her spine, offering support without being overt about it. With a deep breath, she felt a sense of security and protection as some of her tension drained away.

The music trailed away, just then, and she realized that it was time for the evening’s second waltz. She and the lieutenant turned to each other as if they were already dancing, in unison. She glanced back at Brienne and Jaime, but they waved her off.

“Go,” said Tyrion. “I’ll piece them back together again.”

Dany and Lieutenant Snow walked arm-in-arm to the dance floor. She steadfastly ignored the stares and, she realized, whispers as people noticed and commented, just curtsying to him, as he bowed to her. Then his hand was on her waist once more, and hers was on his shoulder, and their palms were clasped lightly together. The same twisting, heated sensation filled her, but this time, she was prepared for it.

“What shall we discuss this time?” she asked as she took her first step backward with his gentle direction. “Heavy issues, or light?”

“Heavy seems to be the tone just set,” he replied. “Lord Jaime appears to feel drastic measures are in order. I’m starting to feel that my birth might be a bit of a favor; no one has ever said a word of pressure about who I must marry. I have no legacy I must concern myself with passing on.”

Dany sighed, feeling a bit wistful in that regard. “I am weary of the issue, myself. Viserys…”

She trailed off, looking for her brother among the onlookers and fellow dancers. She saw him on the sidelines, his face a rigid mask of displeasure.

 _I may as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb,_ she thought. She was already dancing with Lieutenant Snow, so she intended to enjoy herself as thoroughly as possible. Her fingers tightened, just the smallest fit, around his, and her hand clasped his shoulder the littlest amount tighter.

His eyes met hers, questioning, and she aimed her most lavish smile at him. He seemed taken aback by it, a little dazzled, even.

“What about your brother, Your Highness?” he said faintly.

“He is very intent upon my marrying well, despite the futility of it,” she replied. “Our family is all but gone. When I marry, I will no longer be a Targaryen, so the dynasty— such as it is— rests solely on his shoulders.” She sighed before continuing. “But his temperament has not been conducive to making a titled match… his demanding nature and arrogant entitlement and haughty disdain alienates anyone who might have considered him for an alliance.”

Dany had never spoken such traitorous words to anyone before, not even Brienne. Always it had been her policy to present a perfect facade of solidarity with her brother. But Lieutenant Snow was alarmingly easy to confide in, his palpable sense of honor inviting disclosure. For a moment, she was appalled at her lack of prudence and stared at him with a pang of fear.

“I won’t tell anyone,” he said quietly. “I’d never betray you, Your Highness.”

“I know,” she replied, and she did. She could see it in his eyes, in the way he held himself. Her secrets were safe with him.

All of her was safe with him.

Even her heart.

Perhaps _especially_ her heart.

Oh, she was in such trouble.

They danced in silence the rest of the waltz. When it was over, and they had bowed and curtsied accordingly to each other, he escorted her back to the balcony, only to find that Brienne and the Lannister brothers had departed at some point during their dance.

“I need to find Brienne,” Dany told Lieutenant Snow. He made to escort her, but she said, “Best if you do not. I think—” She blushed a little to say it. “I think we may have already attracted quite enough attention for the evening.”

Not only that, but Viserys was heading in their direction.

“I must go while I can,” she said hurriedly, and took a step away, but then stopped and turned back.

“I would not betray you, either, Lieutenant,” she whispered, then fled the ballroom as quickly as she could, without being inappropriate, but as soon as she was in the hallway, she began to run to Brienne’s room.

She arrived without incident, thankfully, no one stopping her to make barbed comments or derisive glances, and knocked softly on the door before slipping through.

Brienne was there, sprawled across her bed with her face buried in a pillow.

“I can undress myself, just like every night,” she mumbled into it, mistaking Dany for the maid assigned to her for the duration of her stay.

“Good, because I wasn’t about to do it,” said Dany, offering a gentle smile when Brienne lifted turned her head to the side and saw her. Brienne just heaved a sigh.

There was no need for Dany to say anything to her; they’d discussed the matter a hundred time already, or more. Dany thought she should admit her love to Jaime, and Brienne insisted it would frighten him away. Neither would budge. All Dany could do was let herself be cried upon when, inevitably, Brienne was hurt.

“Well,” she said, “I’ll stay here with you tonight.”

Brienne met her eyes. “Thank you,” was all she said, but there was a world of gratitude and affection in it.

When the maid arrived, Brienne sent her to Dany’s room for a night shift and fresh change of clothing for the morning. They were happy to shed their evening clothes and wearily climbed into bed.

Dany couldn’t resist one last try.

“He loves you, Brienne.”

But though Brienne was not asleep, she did not respond.

 

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~*~

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The next morning, they did not speak of Jaime or his army commission. Dany skipped breakfast to work on the pink gown once more, stopping only when the growling of her stomach was too distracting to continue. She joined the Tyrells and their guests for an _en-pleine-air_ luncheon under the broad colonnade spanning the entire back of the castle, where many tables and chairs had been set up for the comfort of all.

Dany was relieved to see Brienne there with Jaime and Tyrion, all seeming relaxed with each other, the tension of the night before having dispersed. They were speaking with the only other princess present, Arianna Martell, at whom Tyrion was staring with single-minded intensity, to the lady’s amusement.

Arianna’s uncle, Prince Oberyn, prowled about the assembly, wandering off every few minutes to have a word with an acquaintance before returning to his niece’s side for a brief while before going off again.

Viserys had considered a Dornish alliance for Dany, ultimately rejecting the idea because of his history of patronizing various Sunspear brothels with Oberyn during the years the Targaryens had flung themselves upon the generosity of the Martells.

“How can I have the man for a goodbrother when I’ve seen him dominate an entire orgy?” Viserys had muttered to himself, probably not realizing that Dany could hear him perfectly well. She’d had to employ her most stealthy means to sneak into the Martell’s library to find a definition of ‘orgy’, and once she had, could not stop blushing for the next week.

Ever since then, in fact, just the very _idea_ of Prince Oberyn was enough to set her face aflame. Being in any proximity to him made her stammer and fumble like a lackwit.

It was apparent she was not the only one, because as their group expanded, every time Oberyn came back for a few moments, another face would light in a hot flush, until nearly everyone was rendered scarlet and tongue-tied.

“Everyone is red but me,” commented Robb as he strolled up to them. His half-brother was nowhere in evidence, Dany was sorry to see. “How is it that I, of all people, am the only one not swept up into some mischief?”

He looked truly confused by the prospect, as if he were used to being the one causing all the trouble.

“What kind of mischief were you in search of?” asked Margaery as she approached from behind.

“Perhaps some horse-racing?” Robb suggested. “Something to get the blood moving. I feel like I’m turning to stone, sitting around all day. Going to start growing mushrooms soon. Croquet just isn’t enough, I’m afraid.”

“Horse-racing sounds good—” began Brienne, who loved a good gallop, but Margaery aimed a sugary smile at her.

“I was hoping for something the ladies could do as well,” she said, reminding Brienne that while her father might entertain her little rebellions of custom and costume, the Tyrells were not about to flaunt propriety and allow a woman to engage in racing.

“Didn’t you mention punting yesterday?” Dany asked, in order to distract the two other ladies from each other.

Margaery exclaimed that she would love nothing better, but Robb’s well-shaped mouth turned down at that.

“Can we at least _race_ the punts?” he asked hopefully.

Margaery frowned before she realized it and composed her face into a lovely smile once more. “Again, I was hoping for something we could all do together.”

“The women could ride in the punts as the men, er, punted,” said Tyrion. “Act as ballast, they could.”

“That might work!” said Robb happily. “What say you, Lady Margaery?”

“Let’s go arrange it!” she replied, conceding with grace, and they hurried off to make arrangements.

“This has the potential to be either wonderful or catastrophic,” Dany commented.

“My dragons are on ‘catastrophic’,” said Jaime, grinning when Brienne nudged him with her elbow.

Margaery returned not long thereafter, telling all and sundry that the punt-racing would take place very soon.

Dany, by that point, had been called away by Viserys to join him in conversation with two ladies he was attempting to charm: the Earl of Winterfell’s sister, Sansa, and her close friend, Jeyne Westerling. Jeyne’s father was from an ancient house, but a poor one, and he had married into trade to replenish the family coffers. Viserys could barely manage to keep from sneering every time he looked at the poor girl.

Robb was not having that problem, however, if the warm glances he aimed Jeyne’s way from across the colonnade were any indication. Sansa looked thrilled at the development, and Jeyne scarcely stopped blushing the entire time.

Dany just gazed longingly at where Robb stood with Brienne, the Lannister brothers, Renly Baratheon, and various young Tyrells. Even putting up with Loras’ snide commentary, Renly’s unsubtle coquetry, and Margaery’s coy witticisms would have been preferable to hearing Viserys talk himself up to Sansa while pointedly ignoring Jeyne. He had not stopped glaring at her even once, resulting in the odd juxtaposition of his glowering face with the lighthearted flirtation he inundated poor Sansa with.

At the ring of a bell, they all repaired to the moat, which took up one of the terraces which ringed Highgarden’s central castle. A half-dozen punts had been positioned at the little dock, and Margaery began directing people into them with the skill and command of a rear admiral.

“Lord Robb,” she said, “you can take the first punt. I thought your sister would ride with you, of course, and then I would join you—”

“And Jeyne, too! I couldn’t possibly go without my closest friend!” exclaimed Sansa, neatly obstructing the other girl’s machinations to spend time with her brother.

Margaery gave a ladylike gnashing of her teeth.

“Of course not,” she agreed, tapping her toe while Sansa and Jeyne clambered into the punt and Robb positioned himself with a pole on its till. With a gentle push, he shifted them toward where the starting line had been indicated.

Viserys was next, boldly leaping down to the second punt, not-quite-suppressing a squawk of alarm when his eagerness nearly upset the craft, and having to steady himself with the pole. Dany bit her lip to keep from laughing.

“In you go,” Margaery told her cheerfully.

Dany dutifully climbed down into the punt, frowning when no one else joined her right away.

“Was it not two ladies to a boat?” she inquired, though honestly, she did not care all that much, somewhat distracted by Lieutenant Snow’s absence.

“I’ll be the second,” Lady Olenna declared, surprised them all. “I shall enjoy being ferried about by a prince.”

Viserys forced a smile, though it was really more of a grimace. The dowager duchess was lowered with exquisite care into the boat, and he used the pole to push them toward where the Stark contingent waited. As they drifted forward, Dany saw the lieutenant jog up to the spectating crowd from the direction of the stables.

 _Ah_ , she thought, _he has been visiting Ghost._ Their eyes met and he smiled; she beamed at him in return.

Jaime was designated punter for the Lannisters, Myrcella and Tyrion serving as ‘ballast’, the latter tossing a filmy scarf over his head to pretend at being a lady when his sour-faced sister flatly refused to participate. Oberyn punted for Dorne, charmingly persuading Brienne to ride with Arianna (and earning himself a scowl from Jaime, which he returned with an angelic grin). The Tyrells’ boat filled last, Garlan serving as punter for his mother and Margaery.

When all five boats were lined up, Mace Tyrell fired a pistol into the air, and off they went. Robb took the lead right away, his strong body propelling his punt forward without seeming to strain in the least. Jaime and Oberyn were next, neck-and-neck, with Garlan after them, and Viserys falling last, his slender frame unable to muster the strength needed to move their boat and its occupants through the water with competitive speed.

He quickly became agitated, humiliated as Dany had feared, and began to strain harder, desperate to— if not come in _first_ — at least not come in _last_. His footing on the till shifted off-center to the more dangerous edges, and with a sinking feeling of doom, Dany tried to counterbalance him with her own weight.

Her sinking feeling was soon matched by her sinking _body_ , because Viserys moved too far to the edge too suddenly for her to shift to the other side, and tipped them right over.

Once the shock of the cool water passed, Dany opened her eyes and saw that her environment, while murky, was only a half a dozen feet deep. She peered around until she saw where sunlight penetrated the first few inches of water, and began swimming up toward it. Breaking free of the surface, she heaved in a breath, took in her surroundings, and began to laugh.

Several feet away, Viserys treaded water, too angry to do anything but splutter in rage. The other boats had stopped so their occupants could marvel at the scene behind them. Margaery sat frozen in the Tyrell boat, hands clasped over her mouth in shock, as Garlan and, from the bank, Loras and even Willas all leapt into the water to rescue their grandmother.

Lady Olenna swatted at them when they tried to take hold of her arms.

”You’ll end up drowning me, you clumsy fools!” she shouted at the young men. “I can swim, blast you.”

Dany laughed until her sides ached and she had to float on her back, too weak from mirth to keep treading water.

“I guess you don’t need me to leap in and rescue you,” called Lieutenant Snow from behind her.

She tilted her face to see him. He stood on the bank, his jacket and one boot off, looking as if he couldn’t decide to be worried or amused.

“Just like Lady Olenna, I can swim,” she called back. “…blast you!” she added, and began a leisurely backstroke in his direction.

Jon laughed at that. He pulled his boot back on and squatted at the edge of the moat as she made her way to him.

“Pull me up?” she asked, reaching a hand out of the water to him.

He took her hand, then the other, and lifted her vertically without seeming to exert any effort at all.

 _He_ _would not have had to strain to push the punt along,_ Dany thought with admiration as she observed the movement of his arms and shoulders in his clinging shirt-sleeves.

Once her feet were on solid ground once more, they grinned at each other while she dripped on his feet, and then she gave a full-body shiver as a breeze flitted by. Jon snatched up his jacket and placed it around her, drawing the lapels close under her chin as she threaded her arms into the sleeves and inhaled the piney smell of him from the wool.

“Hot baths and dry clothes for everyone!” cried Margaery, having just alighted from her punt to lead the march back to the house, keen to pretend all was well. The servants present all scurried to do her bidding.

Dany absorbed the heat of his forearm where she placed her hand. His hand came to cover hers, and then she put her second hand on top of his. If anyone had asked, she would have insisted it was to ward off the chill from being soaked, but the fond smile she exchanged with Jon was proof it had nothing to do with temperature and everything to do with the growing affection between them.

“Keep it,” he told her upon reaching the house, when she tried to give the jacket back. “At least until you don’t need it any longer. I have several more.”

And so she hugged the jacket closely around herself as she traipsed up the stairs to her room, her legs all swan bumps from her wetly clinging skirts, but the rest of her cozy from neck to hip where the wool covered her.

The hot bath was very welcome, and Dany lingered in it until she began to chill once more when the water grew tepid. After a brisk toweling, she had a maid return the lieutenant’s jacket to him, and dressed. She wore her best evening gown, a lilac silk she’d remade from a frock that would have been ghastly on poor Brienne. Dany had carefully picked free yards and yards of golden embroidery from yet another ghastly frock, then reused the floss to trim the round neckline of the lilac silk. It was the best gown she had; the best she’d ever owned.

She would wear it tonight. For Jon Snow.

And to hell with tomorrow.


	4. Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your comments, I'm happy you're enjoying it :)

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~*~

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Dany was unable to sit beside Lieutenant Snow during dinner, but she had not expected to. Her rank commanded a place of honor toward the head of the table; not quite as near to Mace Tyrell, Duke of the Reach, as all those heirs, but ahead of many of the spares, and most definitely closer than a mere bastard. _He_ had been placed at the very foot of the table, beside Brienne, a fact that deeply vexed Jaime Lannister, seated to Dany’s right.

“She’s to be a countess in her own right,” grumbled Jaime between spoonfuls of soup. “Might not be up here with the dukes and marquesses, but there’s no reason for her to be down there with the dregs—”

Under cover of the table and its long damask cloth, Dany found the arch of his foot with the heel of her dancing slipper, pressing with increasing force until Jaime’s lips stopped moving and he winced.

Then he grinned at her, in spite of the pain she was causing him. But it wasn’t a very friendly grin. Rather nasty, in fact.

“Like that, is it?”

She turned an utterly blank face at him.

“His birth is no more his fault than Brienne’s looks are hers,” she said quietly, knowing reference to her friend’s unfortunate appearance would make her point. “And they’ve put your brother down there, as well. Is he also a dreg?”

Jaime narrowed his green eyes in a most unfriendly manner, which distressed her not a bit.

“Point taken,” he conceded, and directed his attention to his soup.

Dany glanced down the table, helpless to keep from looking at Lieutenant Snow for long, and found both he and Brienne watching her, identical frowns of concern creasing their foreheads. Clearly, they had witnessed her little tiff with Jaime. She tapped her foot against his once more, startling him into spilling soup down the front of his burgundy jacquard waistcoat instead of into his mouth.

“What?” he demanded, his tone short as he looked down at himself.

“It’s a clear soup,” she told him. “It will hardly stain.”

“It wouldn’t have stained at all if you hadn’t been playing footsie with me under the table,” he muttered. “What do you want?”

“Smile at Brienne,” said Dany. “Pretend that we are delighted to be seated by each other.”

“Why lie?” Jaime grumbled. He was making more of a mess with his napkin by smearing the soup around, instead of blotting as anyone with half a brain would know to do.

“Blot, not wipe,” she said, rolling her eyes. “And you should lie because she is worried that we are having a row.”

“We _are_ having a row.” But he obediently aimed a grin down the table at Brienne.

Brienne did a move with her eyebrows that indicated her worry and an offer for help. Dany watched, fascinated, as Jaime managed to communicate, with no more than a crinkle of the eyes as his smile deepened, that he was fine but appreciated her offer. Then Brienne’s face turned amused.

“You have your own language, don’t you?” she murmured, her own gaze shifting to Lieutenant Snow. She wondered if she would ever know him so well that they could have an entire conversation without needing to utter a word.

“I expect we do, after being friends for so long,” Jaime said cautiously, catching the eye of a footman to take away the offending soup bowl. He gave up trying to repair his garment and dropped his napkin back to his lap.

“Waiting for your father to die, I suppose.”

He blinked at her. “Beg pardon?”

“To marry her,” Dany clarified. “You must wait until you’ve inherited because he won’t permit it.”

Jaime just stared. “How—”

“I am observant. People tend to forget me, or think of me as a servant, so they say things in front of me they would not if I were a person of real consequence.” She sounded bitter, and did not care. “I understand your motives. But you should mention it to her.”

“I—”

“She adores you, but thinks her love unrequited. It hurts her deeply.”

The healthy tan of Jaime’s face drained away, but before he could reply, Margaery was addressing them.

“Princess Daenerys, Lord Jaime… what an intense conversation you’re having! Pray share its topic with us,” she said, smiling innocently. She was aware of Jaime’s proposal, and Dany’s rejection of it, and likely felt they were having an argument based upon resentment of that.

“I was poking fun at Lord Jaime’s inability to feed himself,” Dany said easily, “and he was dismayed to see what a mess he’d made of his lovely waistcoat.”

“A most unkind woman,” Jaime said, a trifle shaky, as he forced a smile. “I believe I’ll find my valet and enlist his help.”

“Blot, not wipe,” she reminded him as he stood and left the table with a last searing glance at her.

“How familiar you and Lord Jaime are,” commented Lady Olenna. “Odd, given how you crushed his hopes less than a week ago.”

“Hardly _crushed._ Possibly just dented a bit,” replied Dany, her tone light. “Lord Jaime is very resilient. I’ve no doubt he’ll be fine.”

Tyrion barked out a laugh from his end of the table, down by those present by grudging suffrance.

“You’re the only woman, besides those in our family and the fair maid of Tarth, who can put my brother in his place,” he said, lifting an almost-empty wineglass to her. “Are you _sure_ you won’t marry him? You’d be able to keep him in line as he so dearly needs.”

“Perhaps I must reconsider,” she drawled, to the amusement of the other guests.

All but two, that was. Across from Tyrion, Brienne’s face was stricken, and Lieutenant Snow’s was blank, inscrutable. Dany offered them an apologetic smile, to which Brienne gave a shaky one of her own, but Jon just applied himself to the filet of sole that had been placed before him.

Dany dragged her eyes back to the head of the table and found her brother staring at her, not even bothering to conceal his fury. She did a little wordless communication of her own, warning him with a flicker of eyebrows to control his expression. With an indrawn breath that pinched his nostrils, Viserys composed himself.

Jaime returned after the fish was removed, just as the aurochs course was being served.

“I’m sorry,” Dany murmured to him.

“It’s fine,” he replied. “Now I look even better.”

He leaned back to display his new waistcoat, in watered silk of jungle green that made his eyes glow.

“Very handsome,” she agreed, and took a bite of her _escalopes en cro_ _ûte_.

“I do love her,” Jaime murmured after a few moments.

“I know.”

“And yes, I’m waiting until I inherit.”

“A wise move.”

They ate in silence, until he spoke again. “While I was changing, I had an idea.”

“I am gratified to hear it.”

Jaime tsked. “Just as flippant as Brienne is.”

“I shall count that a compliment, my lord.”

“It wasn’t meant to be.”

“And still.”

“It could benefit both of us,” he continued a bit later, during the dessert course. “My idea, that is.”

“Now you intrigue me.” She stopped their game of muttering at their plates to look him in the face. “I am always eager to hear of something that might benefit me.”

“Save me a dance, later. I’ll tell you, then.”

“With pleasure.”

But there was to be no dancing after dinner, Dany learned once the ladies had retreated to the sitting room and left the men to their port and cigars. Instead, they were to play a game: the women would lose themselves in the elaborate maze of hedges, and the men were to go a-prowling in search of them. The last woman to be found, having hidden herself the best, was to win a prize, as would the gentleman whose hunting skills were excellent enough to locate her.

It sounded tedious in the extreme, and Dany scoured her mind to think of a reason she could be excused, but Margaery was effusive in expressing her delight at such a frolic.

“I have a bad feeling about this,” muttered Brienne as they were herded out of the house and from one terrace to the next toward the maze.

“At least you’re wearing proper boots,” said Dany. “This gravel is unforgiving to those of us in slippers.”

“I’ll get you a pair of boots like these, if you tell me what you and Jaime were arguing about.”

“Ah, bribery!” Dany exclaimed, laughing.

Brienne gave her a sheepish grin. “Lieutenant Snow and I were dying of curiosity.”

“It was of little consequence,” said Dany. “Lord Jaime was being unkind, I scolded him, he spilled his soup, I made fun of him for it.”

She peeped up at her tall friend and saw her skepticism.

“Truly, nothing is wrong,” Dany said. “You are aware of his quick temper, and of my own. We snipped at each other, but when he returned, all was well again.”

They fell silent as they continued their forced march to the maze.

“Do you think I can pretend an ankle injury to avoid this?” Dany asked under her breath.

“I was just wondering the same. We can’t _both_ do it.”

“How about if I fall lame, and you have to carry me back?”

“I’m sure Lieutenant Snow would fight me for the honor.”

A fierce blush rose in Dany’s cheeks, and she bit her lip to keep from smiling foolishly. The idea of his carrying her was very appealing. Beside her, Brienne started laughing, which only made Dany blush more.

“Do you think it would work?” she whispered, making Brienne laugh all the harder.

“I’d know that honking anywhere,” came a teasing voice, and Jaime pushed forward to join them, just behind on the narrow path leading to the maze. “What’s so funny?”

“I was imagining Brienne as my gallant knight, carrying me to safety if I should have the _grave misfortune_ to sprain my ankle on this gravel and thus were not able to participate,” Dany improvised.

“Yes, a _very_ grave misfortune indeed,” said Jaime, not fooled in the least. “Ridiculous wench would probably do it, too, in spite of there being an entire pack of young gentlemen panting for the chance to prove themselves worthy of Her Highness.”

“I’m prepared to fling myself headlong into the moat, if it will spare me from such an indignity,” Dany said as they arrived at the entrance to the maze.

“Hopefully, it won’t come to that,” said the Earl of Winterfell.

The three of them turned to find him standing there, Lieutenant Snow at his side.

“But it might create a distraction the rest of you can use to flee,” said Dany, trying and failing to keep her eyes from gravitating to the lieutenant to the exclusion of everyone else. “It would be my honor to fall upon that sword and spare you all.”

“A brave sacrifice for our sake, but no,” Robb replied. There was the barest resemblance in his face to Lieutenant Snow. He was a handsome man who smiled easily, and seemed kind. Yes, he might have been a fine husband for her, had she never met his half-brother.

But she _had_ met him, and she was coming to understand she would never be the same because of it.

Dany turned to Lieutenant Snow now. “What do you think of this game?”

“I think it’s reminding me why I avoid house parties whenever possible,” he said with his little smile. “I only attended this one to have a last week with Robb before deploying to Essos.”

“And how blessed I feel because of it,” said Robb with an easy laugh. He clapped his brother on the shoulder. “Well, you’ll be gone soon enough. And when you’re in a spider-filled tent in some dusty corner of Essos, eating stew made from a knackered horse and someone’s old boot, you’ll think back to the burden of having to chase beautiful women through a maze and realize how good you had it.”

“I’ve no doubt you’re right,” admitted Lieutenant Snow with a laugh of his own.

Garlan Tyrell clambered onto the lip of a nearby fountain and raised his voice to be heard above the chattering assembly.

“At the count of three, all the ladies are to enter the maze and spread out. You are not allowed to remain together, each must be completely alone. After ten minutes, the gentlemen shall follow. Men, we must escort the first lady we find out of the maze— no picking and choosing a favorite.”

Everyone offered a polite laugh at that.

“Last lady to be found, and the gentleman to find her, shall be the winners.”

“What do they win?” called out Renly Baratheon.

“The warm satisfaction of having succeeded where others failed,” Garlan replied with a grin. “On the count of three!”

“One— two— three!” everyone shouted together, and in the ladies went.

It was very dark in the maze, as the hedges were quite dense and almost as tall as Brienne, permitting only a strip of moonlit sky overhead.

“Now _I_ _’m_ having a bad feeling about this,” Dany commented to Brienne.

“None of that!” exclaimed Margaery, just ahead of them. “This will be a grand adventure!”

“I’ve had more than my share of those,” said Dany under her breath, thinking of the times she and Viserys had had to tromp through the countryside in search of a noble house that would take them in for a while.

“As have I,” added Brienne, doubtless thinking of her battles against pirates back on Tarth.

Margaery just tsked at them, and veered off down a fork in the path.

One by one, each lady took herself off on her own into the maze until only Dany and Brienne were left grouped.

“Should we stick together, and say to hell with the rules?” Brienne asked her, frowning in concern— not for herself, because she could just barrel her strong body through the hedges to freedom if she liked, but for Dany, who had no chance of doing the same.

“No,” Dany sighed. “I’d rather not attract a scolding because I didn’t play as I ought.”

Brienne looked doubtful, but nodded and turned onto a branching path. Dany kept walking until she was forced to make a turn, and chose to go right. She followed that path until it ended and she had to make another decision. This time, she chose to go left.

At the end of that path was nothing: no turn to make, just a little stone bench nestled into an alcove of shrubbery. As another countdown occurred, indicating the men had entered the maze, she felt it an excellent place to sit and wait for her brave rescuer to appear.

It was a lovely night, actually. A trifle cool, with a faint breeze wafting the scent of growing things from the gardens and fresh water from the fountains and the moat. The sky was clear and the stars were out in force. Dany could hear faint voices and laughter as the other women were located and extracted. She clasped her hands in her lap and waited, bored and wishing she had brought a wrap with her.

Footsteps crunched on the gravel, and she looked up to find her own brother, Viserys, turning onto the path.

“Oh,” he said, sounding disappointed. Dany knew he had hopes of an alliance, himself— if not to Margaery Tyrell, perhaps Arianna Martell or even the eldest Stark daughter. There were any number of other very lovely and pleasant ladies from the more minor houses present at the house party, but he would not deign to consider them, not realizing that after making his acquaintance, _they_ would not deign to consider _him_.

When he began walking back the way he came, Dany went to follow, but Viserys turned back to her with a glare.

“Stay here,” he told her in a low voice, “and wait for someone else. You haven’t said a word to Edmure Tully all day, and then there was that ludicrous display with Jaime Lannister at dinner. You’re not making the most of this opportunity, Dany. It won’t come again. If you waste it…”

He trailed off, but she knew he meant to make her life miserable— _more_ miserable— if he perceived she was not doing her best to hook a nice plump fish into matrimony.

Dany nodded agreement, but he didn’t see it, having already stalked back down the path the way he had come. She sighed and returned to her bench. The temperature was dropping, rendering the stone cold beneath her bottom, and as the minutes passed, it felt more and more hard and uncomfortable.

The sound of voices was lessening, too, as more and more ladies were found. Apparently each pair of hunter and prey simply returned to the house once their participation was over, and after a while, Dany became convinced she had been left in the maze alone, all the others having sought a roaring fire and some hot tea.

She considered calling out for help, but her mind recoiled at the humiliation she would feel, and how Viserys would find a way to blame her for not being located. But if she did not, she would remain lost in the maze. She could try to find her own way out, but the prospect of possibly making herself even more lost convinced her not to try it. Resigned, she shifted on the stone bench and waited.

After another hour, Dany became convinced that they had all forgotten about her. The moon had shifted in the sky, its oblique angle rendering the night so dark that even if she had had the energy to try one last time to find the exit, she could barely see the gaps in the shrubbery. Shaking with cold, she put her elbows on her knees, her face in her hands, and fought back the frustrated tears that threatened to escape.

Another crunch on the gravel had her lifting her head, and she blinked to clear her vision. Before her on the path, just where the last junction met, stood Lieutenant Snow and Ghost.

She leapt to her feet as he strode forward.

“There you are,” he said, relief clear in his voice. “I—”

Dany hurled herself at him, overwhelmed by gladness, not only to have been found, but that it should be by _him_.

The lieutenant dropped Ghost’s leash and wound his arms around her.

“Don’t cry,” he whispered. “I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner. I knew Ghost could find you, but they made such a clamor about it being cheating. I had to wait until everyone else left.”

“Thank you for not forgetting me,” she whispered, shivering against his chest once her tears had run their course. “I was frightened I’d be here all night.”

“You’re not dressed for this,” the lieutenant said. He released her and stepped back, just enough to reach his buttons, and unfastened his uniform jacket, but before he could slip it off, Dany was back in his arms, this time inside the jacket with him. After a moment, where he was likely very shocked at her forwardness, he wrapped the lapels of the jacket around her, then his arms again, cocooning her in his warmth.

“I could never forget you,” he said eventually, so quietly Dany almost thought she imagined it. “Not after only an hour or two. I think fifty years might not be enough, in fact.”

She looked up at him in surprise. His face was very near, and the way his gaze kept darting down to her mouth told her he wanted to kiss her, very much.

_Wanton lechery indeed_ , she thought, remembering what Alerie Tyrell had said he was a symbol of. For the first time in her life, she had gained an understanding of what that might actually mean, and how irresistible temptation could be. How could a woman withstand this heady rush of excitement, and the pressing need to be closer and closer to a man?

Dany had had kisses stolen before, but always they had been quick, furtive things, over before she’d barely realized they’d taken place. She wanted a kiss that lingered, that deepened… and she wanted it with him. _Only_ him.

“Please,” she found herself whispering, hating to beg but knowing he would not move without her permission.

An expression of relief flitted across his handsome features, and then he tilted his head down to hers, so slowly, giving her plenty of time to change her mind, to pull away and flee.

But Dany only strained up toward him, meeting him half-way— possibly two-thirds of the way, if one were to be honest— and when their lips met, it sent a tremor through her, a tremor she could tell echoed in him, in how his strong body shuddered against her.

He cupped the back of her head, his fingers sliding into her hair, and his other hand pressed between her shoulder blades so she was flattened against him, so closely she could scarcely breathe. The hard strength of his chest against hers, the powerful length of his legs brushing hers, made her feel a bit frantic, as if she still weren’t close enough. She could only be close enough if she surrounded him, if she wrapped herself around him—

And another revelation about men and women made itself known to her. For the first time, the idea of the marriage bed did not fill Dany with apprehension and dread. If this were what desire felt like, she was shocked the entire kingdom was not positively teeming with bastards.

“ _Oh_ ,” she sighed against his mouth, shocked at her good it felt, how warm and close and perfect. If this is what it were like to kiss someone you actually wanted, it was a wonder anyone ever stopped doing it. “Kiss me forever.”

He shuddered again, and when he kissed her again, his lips parted over hers. She opened to him and jerked in surprise at the touch of his tongue. Had she thought it was good, just moments ago? She had to wrap her arms around his chest, fingers clenching in his waistcoat, to keep from melting to the gravel below their feet.

He pulled back, gasping, his eyes so intense she was almost frightened; not of him— never of _him_ — but of the force of his regard, because he was staring at her as if he could consume her, as if he would conquer the world for her.

“Dany,” he said, his voice low, thrumming, urgent.

“Jon,” she answered, and leaned into him once more.

But he just swallowed heavily and detached himself from her. This time, he succeeded in removing his jacket, and placed it around her shoulders.

“We cannot… we should get back before our absences become remarked upon,” he said, his voice rough. “I had Robb distract the Tyrells as best he could, but short of magic tricks, he can’t hold their attention forever. And the other guests might start to wonder, as well.”

“Yes,” Dany agreed breathlessly. She was panting, and her lips felt swollen, and her chin was lightly abraded by his beard. She thought of how convenient it would be if they were discovered alone together: then she’d have no choice but to wed him, Viserys’ dreams of her becoming a duchess be damned.

But it would not be fair to Lieutenant Snow— _Jon_ , she amended in her mind, _surely they were beyond using titles with each other by this point_ — to be strong-armed into marriage amidst a scandal the likes of which Westeros had not seen in decades. Possibly centuries, even.

She put her arms through the jacket’s sleeves and went to slip her hands into its pockets. Her fingers curled around a wad of something soft; she withdrew it to find a small ball of yarn.

Jon’s grin was quicksilver, there and gone in an instant. “I knew Ghost could find you, but I wasn’t so sure he could lead us back out again.”

And he pointed to where the yarn trailed off down the path.

Dany beamed up at him, delighted at his cleverness, and how he’d put that much thought into her rescue.

“I begged it off the housekeeper when I went back for Ghost,” he said, appealingly bashful about it, and Dany was hard-pressed to keep from flinging herself back in his arms in response.

She forced herself, instead, to follow the trail of yarn, winding it back into a ball as she went, with Jon and Ghost close beside. After their second turning, his hand found her waist; after the third, his arm was around her and she was pressed warmly against him. She said not a word, just tucked herself closer into his body.

They walked in silence, the ball of yarn growing and growing as they followed the trail. By the time they finally emerged from the maze, the ball was the size of Jon’s fist. Dany untied where Jon had fixed the end to a branch and made to hand the ball back to him, but he gave her one of his little smiles.

“Keep it,” he said. “You can make…” He looked over the yarn. “Well, there’s not much of it, is there? I don’t know what you could make out of it.”

“I could knit a pair of mitts,” she said, “or the lining of a hood. Some nice soft trim for a winter frock, for the neck and wrists…?”

Dany passed her fingertips over one wrist to illustrate her meaning.

“However you use it, it will look beautiful, I’ve no doubt,” he said hoarsely. His thumb traced the lace edging her sleeve’s cuff.

Dany stared up at him. His face was limned in moonlight; his eyes, pure mystery, dark and depthless. She could hardly breathe, looking at him. Jon reached out to touch her face, his fingers just skimming along her cheek. She swayed closer to him.

Ghost made his grumbling sound, lifting his great head to scent the air.

“Someone is coming,” said Jon softly. “You must go. If they were to see you with me—”

Dany could not stifle a laugh, making his brows draw together in confusion. Her reputation was imperfect, to say the least, due to her vagabond history if nothing else. It was worthless for anything but making a match advantageous to Viserys. She removed his jacket and handed it back to him.

“I’m so glad you found me, Jon,” she said.

“Yes,” he replied, “so am I.”

But she had the strangest feeling he did not only mean in the maze. She could not resist pressing one last kiss to his lips, then flashed him a smile, and dashed off.

Up the stairs to the lawn she ran, then up more to the terrace. Through the tall palladian windows she could see where everyone else was socializing, merrily enjoying the rest of their evening while she had been lost in the maze. All seven Tyrells were there, as well as Viserys, and not one of them looked even the slightest bit curious as to where Dany might have been all this time.

She took the servants’ stairs up to her modest bed chamber and wasted no time undressing; she was done for the evening. A quick wash, a tug of her night rail over her head, and she climbed into bed, ball of yawn in hand. What should she make of it? Something for Jon, she decided, but what? Nothing that would clash with his uniform, of course, so… something small, able to be discreetly hidden…

A cockade would be the perfect thing; he could not affix it to a hat, but he could keep it in a pocket. Dany got back out of bed to rummage through her tin of buttons.

There, at the bottom, was her precious cache: a dozen buttons the size of a silver stag, made of Valyrian steel and embossed with the three-headed dragon that had been the Targaryen sigil for millennia. Apart from her mother’s tiara, which Viserys had had to sell to purchase passage for them to Tarth from Storm’s End, all those years ago, those buttons were the last relics of her family’s prestige and prominence. They were priceless, not only in value monetary but sentimental, as well.

She took one of the precious buttons out before hiding the tin away once more. Then she got out her finest, smallest crochet hook, and another candle, and set them all on the side table before climbing back into bed. Carefully, Dany separated the twisted strands of yarn until she was left with a single thin filament of wool, and began to work.

By dawn, she still had not slept, but she had completed a small circle of finely-wrought lace. Her hands shook with exhaustion and her eyes felt like a spoonful of sand were under each lid, but she was satisfied with her accomplishment. A few hours’ sleep, and she’d be right as rain…

Dany put the project aside and was asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow.

.

~*~

.

The next morning, Dany knew she had to work on the pink gown, but making the cockade was far more alluring a project. Yawning, she dressed in a gown of pale yellow, hoping its color could balance out the purple smudges of fatigue under her eyes.

She pleated the circle of lace, stitching down the folds with a bit of silk thread, and then wondered how she might fix it to the button. After some thought, she went to the room where the maids and valets repaired their ladies’ and lords’ shoes. A bit of searching revealed an awl and a small mallet. She pried the back off the button and sandwiched the little rosette between the back and the front, then hammered the back into place.

Satisfied, she snuck back to her room and sat, admiring her handiwork, for a few minutes. The cockade was small enough to fit into a breast pocket, and the red lace was festive, and matched his uniform. The woolen yarn was a bit sturdier than silk or linen would have been, perfect for a military man. And the steel of the button would not tarnish. It was, she congratulated herself, a superlative gift.

Starving, she hid it in the drawer of her bedside table and made her way down to luncheon. Brienne was already there, and Jaime, their heads perhaps a trifle closer together than was wise as they conversed over their meal. When Dany brought her plate to the table and sat across from them, they looked up at her with twin expressions of joy, and she realized they had come to some understanding.

“I am in your debt,” Jaime murmured with a look of profound gratitude.

“Thank you,” Brienne added in a whisper. “So much.”

“I am very happy for you,” she said quietly, for their ears only, and blinked back her quick rush of tears.

“Oh, don’t cry,” Brienne admonished her.

“If you cry, I’ll cry, too,” said Jaime, and she was touched to see that his eyes did seem a little red around the edges.

_He is a secret romantic,_ Dany realized, and smiled at him.

“You must be good to my friend,” she said. “Or you shall answer to me.”

“I quake,” said Jaime. “I quail. Your immense form and mighty strength strike terror into my heart.”

“Though I be but little, I am fierce,” Dany informed him, waggling her fork at him in a shocking display of poor manners. “You would do well to fear me.”

“ _I_ _’m_ afraid of you, and I don’t even know why,” said the Earl of Winterfell as he drew out a chair at her side and sat.

“No need for terror,” said Dany lightly, “as long as you remain on my good side.”

“Remind me to always remain on Her Highness’ good side,” Robb Stark told his half-brother, quirking an amused little smile when Jon took the empty chair on Dany’s other side instead of the one by Robb.

“You are well this morning?” asked Jon. “You did not take a chill from being caught out so late?”

The others stopped eating to look at them.

“What happened?” asked Brienne with a frown, her eyebrows lifting when she realized. “Oh, no, were you left out in the maze for a long time? I’m so sorry, Dany.”

“Yes, I was out there for several hours,” she said before looking to Jon once again. “But no, Lieutenant, I did not take a chill. I am quite fine.”

His smile was relieved. “I am glad.” Then he colored a bit and addressed himself to his plate, as if embarrassed to be so obvious about his interest.

Dany glanced up to find Brienne and Jaime and even Robb all watching her with interest. She feigned nonchalance but felt her own cheeks warm.

“Were you found quickly?” she asked her friend.

“Almost immediately,” said Brienne, glancing at Jaime.

“I just had to look skyward,” he said with a laugh. “I saw her hair over the top of the hedges.”

They looked at each other, then away, and then turned matching shades of red, and Dany realized that they had not tried all that hard to exit the maze, enjoying the scrap of privacy they had found for a few moments.

_While I languished in the cold,_ she thought wryly.

But, she considered, glancing at Jon, it had all worked out quite well in the end.


	5. Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I didn't post yesterday. I felt like the last chapter was not what it could be, so I held off, added a few thousand more words, chopped it into two chapters, an here we are. Instead of 5, now it's 6-- last chapter coming out tomorrow. I'll start posting Part 2 immediately the next day after that.
> 
> Thanks for your kind comments, I hope you like this chapter :)

.

~*~

.

Dany spent the afternoon sewing, wanting to get the pink gown finished so she would be able to wear it at least once for Jon before he left at the end of the week. She passed the hours until dinner trying to work as much magic as possible on the frock. Her priority was to distract attention from the insipid color to the cut, the trim, the way the fabric moved as she walked. It would be a challenge. She only hoped her skills were up to it, as the fabric was very slippery and liked to unravel faster than she could sew it together. Having to flat-fell each seam was taking three times as long.

Finally, to her relief, the bell chimed to indicate it was time to dress for dinner. Dany stood and stretched before washing quickly and exchanging her day dress for the last evening gown Jon had not yet seen, one of peach-colored charmeuse. There had not been enough of the cloth to fashion long sleeves for it, so she wore extra-long gloves and draped a wide velvet scarf in spring green over her elbows in the hope it would disguise any finger-shaped marks Viserys might have left upon her pale skin in the past few days.

In an attempt to disguise the lingering dampness of her hair, she quickly fashioned another bandeau from a strip of leftover green velvet, and used it to hold back the loose pale curls. The look seemed to charm Jon when he saw her minutes later in the drawing room, if the warm appreciation in his eyes was any indication. She made to go directly to him, but a gentleman stepped into her path.

“Your Highness,” Lord Edmure Tully greeted her, bowing.

“Your Excellency,” she replied, recognizing him from the introduction Lady Alerie had provided the day before, and curtsied.

He was a bit older than the other potential husbands Viserys had tossed her way, as many as fifteen years her senior. The idea did not appeal. But, she considered, Jaime was nine years older than Brienne, and that seemed to bother them not at all. Heir to the duchy of Riverlands, and Earl of Seagard in his own right, Edmure was attractive, with the russet hair and sky-blue eyes of House Tully. He was known as a fair and decent man. With his elder sisters having married into the Stark and Arryn families, respectively, he was closely aligned with two of the greatest houses of Westeros.

In short, Edmure was an excellent prospect, and if the way Viserys was eyeing Dany from across the room were any indication, he thought so, too. There was a glint in her brother’s eye promising unpleasantness if she were to do anything to cock up persuading Edmure into offering for her.

“I am happy to see you are here this week,” said Edmure. He was either unaware that Dany and Viserys had managed residence at Highgarden for the entire year thus far, or was kindly pretending that they were only visiting temporarily. Either way, it was nice to not be reminded of their perennial financial embarrassment.

“I am happy to be included,” she therefore said, trying to infuse her voice with some warmth. Edmure seemed genuinely interested in her; he exhibited none of the resigned obligation Jaime had shown, nor the uncomfortable squirming of poor Willas Tyrell on those blessed-few occasions that Viserys had arranged for them to be thrown together.

“May I have the honor of escorting you in to dinner?” Edmure asked.

“Of course,” she replied automatically. “You are very kind, Your Excellency.”

He smiled and presented his elbow to her. “Please, call me Edmure.”

Dany forced a swallow past the sudden tightness in her throat. This was going swiftly. She longed to be on Jon’s arm instead, and wondered if he were watching her, and if he begrudged Edmure’s interruption. _She_ certainly did. “Of course, Lord Edmure.”

The bell sounded, and Edmure led Dany into the dining room. He was seated at her side in Jaime’s place, that gentleman having been moved across the table to sit between Jeyne Westerling and Arianna Martell, doubtless to avoid another event between them like the previous night. Jaime gave Dany a waggle of the eyebrows before dutifully turning to engage Jeyne in conversation.

Dany searched the table until she found Jon. He was seated as he had been all week, dead last at the end of the table, with Brienne in her same chair as well. There was an inscrutable look on his face as he gazed at her. She wished they had the familiar ability to communicate without words, trying to tell him with her eyes that she would far rather be at his side than Edmure’s.

The meal passed well enough. Edmure was an adequate, if unexciting, conversationalist, but Dany found herself missing the tartness of her words with Jaime. If the smirk on his face were any indication, he was rather feeling the same, mired as he was in blandishments with his mealtime companions.

By the time the ladies deserted the men to their drinks and cigars, Dany was feeling anxious and impatient, and wondered if it were due to missing Jon or just a general malaise to be in the company of so many people, most of whom she did not care for.

“I’m so pleased you and Lord Jaime have settled matters between you,” she said quietly to her friend as they found an empty corner and appropriated it.

“As am I,” Brienne agreed, “but there is still so much to think about. This army commission… withstanding Lord Tywin’s pressure on Jaime to marry… my father’s pressure on _me_ to marry…”

“But you will be thinking about it together, at least,” said Dany. “That makes it easier to bear, I would think.”

She averted her gaze, feeling a rush of loneliness and yearning. No matter how glorious this week had been, it was not to last. Jon would go off to Essos, and she would be back to her solitary life of impoverished charity and being paraded around to all the noblemen of Westeros like a prize sow for purchase. Eventually, she’d choose one of them to marry, and spend the rest of her life as mother to his children and chatelaine to his home.

Brienne studied her for a long moment. Then she said, “Dany, about Lieutenant Snow…”

Dany forced herself to meet her friend’s gaze.

“You know it is impossible, don’t you?” Brienne continued, very kindly. “Even moreso than Jaime and I. We, at least, only have to wait until his father passes away, though it may be some years. But… the lieutenant’s birth… there’s no getting past that, Dany.”

Dany blinked hard to stay the rush of tears to her eyes. “I know. But I cannot help how I feel for him.”

“We do not choose who we love,” Brienne whispered. The words seemed to have some deeper meaning for her. “I understand. I simply do not wish to see you hurt. _Or_ Lieutenant Snow; he seems a fine man. I wish there were some way, but…”

Dany could not hold back a hopeless little laugh. “I know,” she said a second time. “I was just hoping to have these few days… before I have to…”

She bit her lip and turned to look out the window at her back, seeing nothing. Behind her, she heard the sound of male voices as the men, done with their cognac and cigars, joined the ladies in the drawing room.

“I’m sorry,” Brienne murmured, placing one large hand on Dany’s shoulder. “If there’s any way I can help you…”

“I will ask, if so,” said Dany, attempting a smile. “Thank you, Brienne. You are the best of friends.”

“Couldn’t agree more,” said Jaime, startling them as he approached, soundlessly, like some great golden cat, “but this gloomy corner is beginning to attract attention. Smile, ladies, smile.”

Dany gave a casual glance about the room, and saw he was correct; various of those present were regarding her and Brienne with curiosity. Several of the gentlemen in particular seemed to be interested in her activities, just then. She drew from the reserve of calm dignity deep within and curved her lips into what she hoped was a passing facsimile of a smile.

“Princess Daenerys,” Jaime continued, “I would also like to recommend that you refrain from pairing that lovely gown with the green scarf again.”

Dany startled, not expecting sartorial advice from the gentleman. “Why is that?”

“I overheard some of the men discussing that it made you look like a peach.” He looked pained, even a little apologetic. “They… were wondering if you tasted like a peach, as well.”

Both Dany and Brienne stared at him in confusion. He sighed.

“It was meant in a very inappropriate way,” Jaime said, a faint slash of pink appearing on each sculpted cheekbone. “A very, very inappropriate way.”

Dany still did not understand, but she comprehended that she had been disrespected.

“Thank you for telling me, ser,” she replied. “I will take care to keep from making myself resemble foodstuffs in the future.”

He was startled into a laugh, but quickly sobered.

“You might also like to… decide what relationship you are to have with Lieutenant Snow. He, too, overheard the inappropriate comments. He was going to challenge the fellows who made them, but his brother convinced him otherwise, and he left the room looking thunderous. His attentions to you are beginning to be obvious, at least among the men.”

“The women are far more canny than the men,” said Brienne, “so you can be sure they have things to say about it, as well.” She gave Dany a troubled look.

“I must talk to him,” Dany said, and sighed in resignation. Her dinner was bound into a solid knot in her stomach. “He left, you say? Where might he have gone?”

“I will make some inquiries,” said Jaime. “Brienne and I can help you to have a few moments with him.” He glanced at Brienne, who nodded agreement, and ambled off, seeming to have no destination in mind but managing to slip from the room without undue attention.

Almost immediately, however, Edmure Tully approached.

“There is to be music,” he announced. “Lady Margaery is to play the pianoforte, and Lady Sansa, the viola. Your brother has said you sing very well, Princess. Will you honor us with a tune?”

“My brother is too generous with his compliments,” Dany said, amazed at how steady her voice sounded. “I enjoy singing, but cannot in honesty claim any talent at it.”

“Your modesty does you credit, Your Highness,” said Edmure, “but—”

“I beg your pardon, Your Excellency,” interrupted Brienne with a dogged smile, “but permit me to assure you that the princess speaks truly, with no sense of modesty, false or otherwise. She could not carry a tune were she given both a bucket and a footman to hold it.”

Edmure’s expression of shock was matched only by Dany’s amusement and, it must be admitted, vexation. She was not _that_ bad a singer. Was she?

“I see,” Edmure said at last, and seemed at a bit of a loss for words.

Thankfully, Jaime chose that moment to return. “Ladies, I have found that particular rose,” he announced. “The one I was telling you about earlier, that grows only at Highgarden. May I escort you to see it?”

“Rather late, isn’t it, Lannister?” asked Edmure, frowning. “They won’t be able to see a thing.”

A screech of strings sounded on the other side of the room, indicating that the promised viola performance threatened to occur at any moment.

“No time like the present, eh?” asked Jaime rhetorically, and put out his elbows, one for each lady to take. “Let us make our escape while we still can.”

Edmure’s frown turned into a glower, and he made to intercept Jaime’s acquisition of Dany in addition to Brienne, but the Earl of Winterfell appeared at her side.

“Sorry I’m late,” said Robb. “Kind of you to wait for me. Eager to see that rose. Shall we?”

He took Dany’s hand, plunked it on his arm, and led the way from the drawing room, leaving Jaime and Brienne to follow as they would. She noted that Jeyne Westerling was dismayed to see Robb leave the room with Dany, but she had other matters to concern her, at that moment.

“My lord,” she said, pitching her voice low until they left the house behind, “I thank you for rescuing me from Lord Edmure, but—”

“Lannister told me that you need a moment to speak in private with my brother,” he said. “I intend to help you accomplish that.”

She was startled into silence. He glanced down at her as they walked into the garden.

“I’m not sure what you’re doing with Jon,” he continued. The heady scent of the roses perfumed the air, and a faint breeze set all the trees to rustling around them. “But it seems ill-fated, in view of your rank, and his. I beg you not to hurt him.”

“Nothing is further from my intent,” she replied slowly, “but I fear it is inevitable. I take full blame for any pain caused. I should have been more careful. I should not have encouraged him, but—”

Dany stopped, unable to speak around the lump in her throat. She swallowed hard.

“But I could not help myself, you see. I was not expecting how much I would come to—” She had to stop again.

“Took you by surprise, did he?” Robb gave her a brief grin and a fond, fraternal pat to the hand resting on his arm. “He tends to do that, yes.”

He halted by a little gardener’s shed. Around them, even in the moonlight, the exquisite roses gleamed, pale and lovely, their odor thick around where they clustered.

“Here is where I leave you,” Robb said, and with a bow, turned back to join Brienne and Jaime where they had paused by a fountain a dozen yards behind them.

“Dany,” said Jon.

She whipped around to see him, and gladness filled her heart.

“Jon!” She took a hasty step toward him before controlling herself, clasping her hands before her to keep from reaching for him. She gazed at him a long moment, marveling at how his eyes fixed so intently upon her, as if she were the only woman in the world.

“I am sorry you overheard those men,” she told him. “Please do not think any more about it. I am used to such things being said, and worse. I’m glad your brother convinced you to remain quiet. I would not have you risk yourself in my defense.”

“They must not be permitted to—”

“ _Please_ , Jon,” she said. Her distress overcame her composure and she went to him, taking his hands. They were very warm against the nervous chill of her own. She stared at him, begging him without words to comply.

Slowly, reluctantly, he nodded.

“I have something for you,” Dany said into the silence that followed, wanting to break at least some of the tension between them. She reached into the top of her glove and extracted the cockade. Tucked into the kid glove against the inner side of her arm, the metal was heated from her skin as she handed it to him.

“I made it from the yarn,” she continued, feeling shy. It was the first time she had ever let anyone besides Viserys and Brienne know of the fruits of her labors; from everyone else, she kept the truth of it a secret, lest they see the extent of her poverty and dependence on charity.

Jon’s lips parted in surprise as he stared down at the cockade. He touched the intricate lace frill surrounding the button, then ran a fingertip over the etched dragon on the button itself.

“Valyrian steel,” he murmured in wonder, then looked up at her. “This is an heirloom. Part of your legacy. I cannot possibly—”

“Yes, you can,” she interrupted him, but with a tremulous smile. “Half the buttons are mine, to do with as I please. And it pleases me to give you one.”

“For what purpose?” asked Jon. “As a token? A promise?”

Pain lanced through her chest. She knew what he was asking: was it a token of her affection for him? A promise to be his? Yearning for both filled her, making her ache fiercely.

“As… as a parting gift,” she made herself say, voice trembling. “As something to remember me by.”

“Dany,” he began, and something in his voice told her he was aching, too. “I don’t want it for that. I must leave, but I won’t be gone forever. The war can’t last more than a few years. And when I return… or before I go, even…”

Oh. _Oh_. Jon was— he was speaking of marriage. He wanted to wed her, and damn her if she did not want the same. She had no illusions about how it would be; as a mere lieutenant, his pay would be low, barely enough to keep her, and where? In the North, where she’d never been in her life; with his family, whom she didn’t know?

Viserys would _foam_ with rage. He would not countenance marriage to a low-ranking officer, a commoner, a _bastard_. He needed her to marry high and well, so that he could be supported as well as Dany, should he not be able to make a fitting alliance of his own.

“We cannot have anything more than this,” she told him shakily. “My brother will never allow it.”

It sounded so final. And it _was_ final, as final as a shovel-full of dirt tossed onto a coffin as it was lowered into a grave. Pain was evident on Jon’s face, in the crease of his brow and the lines bracketing his mouth.

“But I could not bear the thought of you leaving for Essos without taking a little piece of me with you,” Dany forged on, trying with everything she had to infuse her voice with something resembling cheer. She failed miserably. “So I made it for you, and hope that when you see it, you will think of me kindly.”

Jon stared at her a long moment, and then placed the cockade carefully in his jacket’s breast pocket. Dany thought it was over, then, and began to turn back to where the others still lingered by the fountain, but his hand wrapped around her arm and spun her around again. She was pressed against him, suddenly, and his hands framed her face.

“No, Dany,” he said, and lowered his mouth to hers.

Her lips parted on a sob, of shock and longing and desire, and he kissed her deeply, making heat race down her limbs. Dany’s arms came up to clasp him tightly, as if she could hold him there and overcome all obstacles to their union through sheer force of will alone.

“I love you,” she gasped when the kiss ended. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t say so, but I can’t help it. I don’t know how I’m going to marry Edmure Tully or anyone else when I love you so much.”

“You’re not going to marry Edmure Tully or anyone else,” Jon said. “You’re only going to marry me.”

“I _told_ you,” she said, despairing, her fists curling into the lapels of his jacket, the braid on them biting into her palms. “Viserys will never permit it.”

“He will, if he sees how we care for each other,” he said. “He has to.”

Dany stared up at him. “Jon, you don’t understand. That will never happen.”

“We must try. Could you live with yourself if we did not at least try?”

He held her closer still, burying his face in her hair, inhaling deeply, as if trying to memorize her scent.

“I don’t think I can live with myself, whether I try or not,” she mumbled into his shoulder. There were no good choices; each would result in causing pain to someone she loved. The future loomed, empty and miserable.

“Tomorrow,” he told her. “Tomorrow morning, we’ll talk to your brother. Then we’ll go to Oldtown, get a special license. It will only take a day’s travel if we ride hard. We’ll have three days before I leave. We can make arrangements… where do you want to live? The North? Or… do you want to come with me?”

“Follow the drum?” It was an intriguing idea: many wives accompanied their husbands on campaign, remaining in camp while their men went to battle and, hopefully, returned afterward. To share a snug tent with Jon, to comfort him after one battle and buoy his spirits when she sent him off to another… to witness his courage and leadership first-hand…

But no. She was romanticizing it. It was a hard life, Dany had heard, of deprivation and discomfort and danger. And what would become of Viserys? How would he get by without her? At least if she remained in Westeros, if she could have a little home, her brother could live with her, and when Jon returned, it would be _their_ home… she wasn’t afraid of keeping house without servants, and she could get a job sewing or trimming hats, to earn some extra coin to supplement Jon’s pay… and perhaps she could even dye her hair, and make a completely new start…

“We’ll talk to him,” Dany said at last, permitting herself the luxury of hope. “Tomorrow, we’ll talk to him.”

Jon’s smile lit up his face like a beacon.

“We’ll find a way, Dany,” he told her. _Promised_ her; she could hear the vow in his voice.

She kissed him, clumsily, for she was still very new to the practice, but Jon did not seem to mind.

When they broke apart, Jon folded her into his embrace once more. Dany buried her face against his neck; he pressed his to her hair again.

“I love you,” he breathed into her ear, weakening her knees so much that she had to clutch at his shoulders to keep from sinking to the ground.

He kissed her over and over, until her lips were swollen and her neck sore from lifting her face to his, but Dany had never felt so happy, so full of joy. When Robb came to them, far too soon, to announce there was no more time and they must return to the house, she felt the keen loss of Jon’s body against hers, his warmth, like she had been stripped naked, left vulnerable and unprotected without him near.

Returned to the drawing room, she found a seat in the back of the assembly, giving all evidence of enjoying Margaery’s musical stylings on the pianoforte, but not hearing a note. She felt like an automaton as she clapped, smiled, and in every way pretended to be normal and social, but her mind existed in a separate place, whirling with thoughts and emotions.

With enormous relief, the guests were finally released to find their beds. Dany went to her room and undressed with alacrity, wanting nothing so much as for tomorrow to come, so she and Jon could beg Viserys to let them marry. She knew he would not grant his permission; would, in fact, berate them soundly, and heap as much scorn as humanly possibly upon Jon’s ignoble head.

But… what if he did grant permission? What then?

The chance, the slim, slim chance, of it, kept Dany from despair, and permitted her to sleep at last.


	6. Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! This is the last chapter of Part 1, but Part 2 chapter 1 comes out tomorrow, so don't think this is over yet!
> 
> Thanks for all your very kind comments :)

Dany dressed with care the next morning, in a blue frock that made the most of her coloring, though her hands shook so nervously she could not make the bandeau sit right around her hair and she gave up on it after a few frustrated minutes. Her hair would look a bit untamed, but there was nothing for it.

When she appeared downstairs, she saw Jon right away, and the rest of the world faded to a blurry smear of color. Swallowing hard, she obeyed Viserys’ command to join him and Edmure Tully, the duke and duchess of the Reach, Lady Olenna, and Arianna Martell to break her fast.

She did not taste a mouthful of what she ate.

When the meal was over, and Viserys pushed back his chair in preparation of rising, she stayed him with a touch to his hand.

“May I have a moment of your time?” she requested politely.

Viserys took her hand in his, a practiced smile on his face as he dropped a kiss on her fingers.

“Of course, dear sister,” he said smoothly. “Your Graces, may we have the library for a short while?”

“Yes, indeed, with our pleasure,” said Lady Alerie, looking anything but pleased.

Viserys placed Dany’s hand on his arm and led her away. She glanced back over her shoulder at Jon, to make sure he was aware of their departure. Right away, he stood, leaving his table and companions to follow her.

“Yes?” Viserys said, testily, once they were safely in the library.

“I have tried to be the best sister to you that I could,” Dany began, stalling for time until Jon’s arrival. “I know the sacrifices you have made for me. For both of us. I love and respect you as no one else.”

“Yeeeeees,” Viserys said slowly. “What do you want of me?” His eyes, as violet as her own, narrowed. “Have you come to an understanding with someone?”

Something in her expression must have betrayed her, because his face took on a knowing, frustrated look.

“And he is a younger son, is that it? You have come to beg permission to marry beneath you.”

The door opened, then, and Jon entered. Dany’s breath caught at the sight of him, as always, and their eyes locked for a moment.

Viserys made a choked sound, and Dany broke away from Jon’s gaze to see her brother’s face purpling with rage.

“You cannot mean, cannot _dare_ , to present me with this man for a husband, Dany.”

“I know his birth is not ideal,” she began, her tone placating, “but he is the son of the Duke of the North, and very close to his half-siblings. His brother will be duke one day, as well, and we have his support—”

“Not _ideal_?” Viserys repeated, his voice low and furious. “His birth is lower than that of the meanest legitimate peasant, Dany. I have not walked the length and breadth of Westeros with you on my _back_ , scrounging for food to eat and rags to wear, debasing myself so we would have somewhere to live, so you could take up with a bastard, Dany.”

“Viserys—”

“I am mocked across the continent as the Beggar Prince,” her brother continued hotly. “I did not have to be. I could have made an easier life for myself without you. I could have left you to _die_ , Dany. Or sold you to a brothel. Many’s the time I was told to, in fact. I had quite a few offers for you. I could have been fabulously wealthy many times over, if only I had whored you out. Did you know that?”

Speechless, she could only stare at him in horror. Beside her, Jon’s face was grimly set, and his fists clenched hard on the back of a nearby chair.

“But you are my sister,” he went on. “You are a _Targaryen_. You were born for more. You were born for _everything_. I have nothing to recommend me, not really. I have no lands or wealth. I’ll never make a good marriage; my fate is likely to ally myself with the daughter of some up-jumped merchant with ambitions of noble grandchildren.

“But you… it is easier for women. Women need have nothing but their blood. And your blood, Dany, is the bluest. The purest. You are the most royal girl on the entire continent, possibly in the world. And you want to squander it on a bastard?”

“But he is a good man, Viserys,” she replied shakily. “The _best_ of men. Our blood would only be improved by pairing it with his.”

Viserys ignored her to settle his hostile gaze on Jon.

“You’re a bold piece,” he told him, “to think you merit my sister.”

“I don’t merit her,” Jon agreed right away. “I doubt anyone does. But I want her. I _need_ her. More than my presumption in thinking I might deserve her.”

“And what kind of life do you think yourself capable of giving her? Do you truly propose to make a princess into the wife of a common soldier?”

“I’m capable of giving Dany a good life, if a modest one,” Jon replied, the strain to control his temper clear on his handsome features. “An honest life, without the aristocratic pretensions I’ve witnessed here this week. A life where she can be proud of herself, instead of having to use her heritage to leech off the more fortunate.”

Both Dany and Viserys sucked in huge gasps of shock.

 _That,_ she thought, _was a grave tactical error._ Too honest by half, was her Jon. Viserys would never forgive such a slight.

Viserys blew out a breath, eyes closed, and his features smoothed until his face was a blank mask. She had seen it many times, had a version of it for herself, in fact, but it was always fascinating to watch the animation drain away, leaving him with the bland, urbane expression demanded by the aristocracy of its members, lest they be considered vulgarly impassioned.

“My answer is no,” he said, his voice almost sounding pleasant, and he left the library.

Dany heard a rushing in her ears. The tall bookcases seemed to spin around her. She wrapped her arms around her waist, trying to comfort herself.

“Dany,” said Jon from behind her. He took her shoulders and turned her to face him.

“Jon,” she answered, grasping his arms and staring up at his beloved face. She had known it would not work, had expected Viserys’ refusal, but that stubborn shred of hope had clung so hard that it had not permitted her to plan for any alternative contingencies. She had no idea what to do.

Jon had one more day before he had to report to Oldtown to board the ship transporting him to Astapor or Yunkai or whichever godsforsaken place he was to go. One day until her heart was to break. One day for her life to end, it felt like.

He pressed a quick, hard kiss to her lips.

“You are over eighteen, are you not?” he asked. At her nod, he continued, “Then you do not need his permission to wed, strictly speaking. We will leave for Oldtown right away. If you won’t follow the drum, you can go to Winterfell with Robb and Sansa. When my commission is over, I’ll come home and we’ll be together.”

He had clearly put a lot of thought into it, and Dany’s throat ached at the sweetness of it, at how much care he had taken in planning for her.

“But Jon,” she said softly, feeling grief and loss rise up in her like a breaking wave, “I can’t.”

The desperate hope on his face turned wary. “Why not?”

“I can’t leave Viserys.”

“Bring him with you to the North.”

“He won’t forgive me, if I went against his wishes. He won’t come with me. And he won’t have anything, without me.”

His hands tightened on her shoulders. “ _ **I**_ won’t have anything without you.”

Dany let out the sob that had been building within her.

“You have a family, Jon, a father and brothers and sisters. You have a career in the military. Viserys has nothing but me. _Nothing_ , Jon. He would not even have the clothing on his back, if Brienne did not give me what she will not wear. He would be back to tramping about the countryside, destitute. I can’t do that to him.”

She was panting by the end of her monologue, her breath rasping painfully in her chest.

“This is your final decision?” he demanded. “I cannot change your mind?”

Dany could not speak; she only shook her head.

Jon cradled her face in his hands, then pressed kisses to it, touching his lips to her brows and her forehead, her nose and her chin, her jaw and her cheeks. Dany closed her eyes, and he kissed each in turn. Then he released her.

Dany put space between them, retreating to the other side of a nearby table. Looking at him _hurt_ ; his face was anguished, and she despised herself for being the instrument of his misery.

He reached into his jacket, then, and withdrew the cockade she had given him only the prior evening. He held it out to her with fingers that trembled.

“I cannot possibly keep this,” he said.

Dany stared at it, then back at him. She stepped back, hands clenched at her sides, refusing to take it, so he placed the cockade with exquisite care down on the table between them.

“When I gave it to you, it was for all time, and I will not take it back,” Dany said. Her vision had long since gone blurry with tears, and her voice sounded garbled around the tightness in her throat. “It is yours now, and forever. What you do with it is your choice.”

“Dany…” he said, reaching toward her, but she took another step away. A tear rolled down her face, though she had tried so hard to hold it back.

“I am sorry, Jon, so sorry. But I have meant everything I ever said to you. Every word was truth. My only regret was that I could not hide my heart from you, so you did not have to share in my pain. You are a kind and generous man; I believe that one day you will be able to understand my selfish need to have you, if only for a short while, and forgive me.”

“Dany,” he said hoarsely.

“Please, _please_ be careful,” she whispered. “I love you so.”

Jon took another step toward her. But she retreated again, then spun and fled the library. She dashed past servants and guests, past Margaery and Alerie, ignoring their cries to know what ailed her. Knowing she would be followed to her room, she went instead to Brienne’s, knowing her friend would not begrudge her private space in Dany’s time of need.

Dany shut the door, leaning back against it and giving in to her need to weep. She stumbled across the room to the plump armchair positioned by the window, the one with the excellent view of the long, sweeping driveway leading to Highgarden’s entrance portico. Falling into the chair, she drew her knees up, crying into them until her skirt was quite damp.

It was not long before a lone horseman, attired in the scarlet coat of a dragoon officer, and an immense white wolf appeared on the drive. Jon paused, looking back at the house, and though Dany knew he could not see her, she pressed a shaking hand to the window pane in farewell to him. He spurred his horse to action, and rode away at a brisk trot.

Dany dropped her forehead to her knees and sobbed.

It was there that Brienne found her, hours later, when she came to change for dinner.

“Everyone is searching for you,” she said soberly. “I will tell them you are unwell so they can stop worrying.”

“Thank you,” Dany croaked.

Brienne requested dinner for them in her room, and tried to coax her to eat something, but Dany couldn’t stomach a bite. She spent the evening staring at the wall, trying to scrape together some manner of coping with her bottomless sense of loss. Brienne insisted she remain with her that night, and Dany was much relieved to have the warm bulk of her friend at her side as they shared the bed, even as she gazed blindly up at the canopy and waited for her heartache to recede enough for her to sleep.

.

~*~

.

The next morning, Dany felt much like she had on the single occasion she had drunk too much wine: parched, sore of head and nauseated of stomach. Brienne thought to cheer her up by sneaking both breakfast and Jaime back to her, but Dany was of no mind to be entertained by his particular brand of humor, a fact which he swiftly realized.

“Your Highness,” he began, his mood shifting from humorous to serious, “do you remember when I told you I had been thinking, and had an idea that might benefit you as well as myself?”

There was an odd note in his voice, something eager and hopeful, and it snagged her attention as little else had since Jon’s departure.

“Oh?” she replied, wiping her eyes.

.

~*~

.

Tuesday 2 September 1806

Winterfell, The North, Westeros

 

Dear Jon,

You will be happy to learn that Jeyne Westerling has consented to become my wife. The wedding will not take place until next spring, since winter is too difficult for the guests to traverse the length and breadth of Westeros to come here. That gives you plenty of time, brother, to request a few months’ leave so you can be here. You shall be my best man, or I will not be married at all.

Father and my mother are pleased with my choice. Jeyne likes Father very much. I think it might take a bit of time for her to come to like my mother, whom you will agree is an acquired taste. Greywind likes her, too, which is enough for me to feel I have made a good decision, and not just because I have come to care for her very strongly.

Our sisters and brothers insist I include their love and tidings in my letter, even though they shall all send their own, as well. And the other wolves wish you to impart their affections to Ghost, as well. Poor Lady misses him the most, she is disconsolate and even Sansa’s best attempts cannot cheer her up.

As for Arya, she is just furious she cannot join you in Essos. What were you thinking, giving her her own sword? There’s not a man, woman, child, animal, or breakable object in Winterfell that hasn’t felt the pointy end of the damned thing by now. Needle, indeed. I know you are sitting in your horrible tent and giggling over the misery you have caused all of us. Be assured we shall recompense you upon your next trip home.

Sansa made the acquaintance of a man during our return to Winterfell from Highgarden. I blame our route; we should have returned via ship, as we we went. But she pleaded mal-de-mer and I was not eager to experience a week of listening to her heave from sunrise to sunset… ah, I should have insisted on the ship.

She met a hulking brute of a man at one of the tiny villages where we stayed the night; he, too, was a fellow traveler headed to Winterfell to be, of all things, our newest kennel master. He has the most hideous facial scarring, Jon; it quite takes up half his face and could crack even the hardiest of mirrors. Lest you think me shallow, please be aware that he also has a terrible personality and no etiquette to speak of. She thinks him the handsomest, most chivalrous creature alive and refuses to have any other.

Our parents are perplexed, to say the least. I would give every silver stag I own to witness your reaction to the man and how Sansa dotes upon him. Mother turns the color of paper at the very idea of him. Sansa feels herself one half of a star-crossed pair of destined lovers. Many arguments have been had.

Bran and Rickon love him, for he treats them as adults, lets them help with the hounds, and uses language so appalling that _Father_ blushes to hear him. Arya half wants to steal him away for herself, since he lets her poke at him with her nuisance of a sword and has been showing her how to actually use it in a way that might actually spare any remaining drapes she hasn’t managed to slash yet.

Now that I have got you laughing, it is time for me to share with you some less-pleasant news. I have kept it to myself for several months, not wanting to overwhelm you while you were acclimating yourself to such a different environment and your new duties. Since declaring yourself quite familiar with your situation, in your last letter, I feel perhaps now is the proper time for this revelation.

The day after you left Highgarden, Jon, Lord Jaime Lannister announced his engagement to Princess Daenerys Targaryen. They left for Casterly Rock soon thereafter with their brothers, a hastily-hired maid to serve as chaperone for propriety’s sake, and the ill wishes of all who had hoped to snag Lannister (Margaery Tyrell and Arianna Martell, primary among them) or Her Highness (Edmure Tully, Garland Tyrell, Oberyn Martell, and a host of lesser-blooded chaps).

If it makes you feel better, be aware that they both looked positively miserable.

I’m sorry, Jon.

Your brother,

Robb Stark, Earl of Winterfell

.

~*~

.

"You made a fine choice in accepting Lannister, Dany," said Viserys. He ran his hand down the embroidered silk of his new waistcoast as together they descended the marble balustrade of Casterly Rock's grand staircase. “I enjoy living here. The Lannisters are not stingy in the least; how fine it is to have bespoke clothing again!”

“You’ve had bespoke clothing for years, brother,” Dany said dully. “Until now, I made everything to your precise measurements.”

Viserys made a dismissive gesture with one elegant hand. “Brienne’s cast-offs.”

“Which she did not have to give us. But did, because she is a kind and generous person who we do not deserve to have as our friend.”

He shot her a curious look, studying her frowning face.

“Your attitude is lacking, sister,” he commented. “I would have you improve it before presenting yourself before your fiancé and his family.”

“And I would have you keep your opinions to yourself,” was her curt reply. “You now have what you have always wanted: your sister on the cusp of acquiring one of the highest titles in the land, a fine residence, and all your comforts provided for with no effort on your own part. So I will thank you to leave me to comport myself as I see fit.”

Viserys stopped short, staring at her in astonishment. Then his temper overcame his surprise, and he reached to grasp her arm, hoping to shake some sense and respect into her, but she slipped nimbly out of his reach.

“No more bruises, brother,” she told him through gritted teeth. “I’ve no long sleeves in my new wardrobe to hide them like I used to.”

He settled for glaring poisonously at her. “Explain yourself, Dany.”

“Don’t call me that,” she said. “From now on, you are to call me Daenerys. Or ‘sister’; I can do with the reminder of our kinship. I find it helps me be patient with you.”

“ _Daenerys_ ,” Viserys said, drawing it out mockingly. “I will have your explanation, now.”

“You gave up the first half your life, keeping me alive. I have now given up the latter half of mine to keep _you_ alive. Never make the mistake of thinking it was done happily, or with anything but a reluctant sense of duty. You will recognize the sacrifice I have made for you; I rejected the man I love, sending him off to war with a broken heart, for you, in recognition of the sacrifice you have made for me.

“But expect no others. I will not tolerate any more bruises or ugly words from you. I have no compunction— _none_ , Viserys— about telling the Lannisters that I do not wish you to remain here with us. I have settled the obligation between us, brother.”

With a last freezing look, Dany swept past him into the dining room, leaving him stunned in the foyer.

“My fiancée has a facile way with words, do you not agree, Your Highness?”

Jaime Lannister stepped from the shadows under the curving staircase to join Viserys in the foyer. He wore the uniform of an army major, and would depart on the morrow for his post in Pentos. He had cropped his hair short _à la Brutus_ in anticipation of it.

“I knew nothing of bruises and ugly words,” he continued, his tone deceptively mild. “But I will not tolerate mistreatment of Her Highness, even when I am so far away. Tyrion will be thoroughly briefed on our expectations for your behavior. I assure you, if he notices anything amiss, you will be tossed out of the Westerlands on your blue-blooded arse without a groat to your name.”

“Feel free,” Viserys replied haughtily, trying (and failing) to change the tide of the distressing conversation and regain some element of control. “My _groats_ are more than enough to fend for myself, especially if I haven’t Dany— _Daenerys_ — to support any longer.”

“Is that right?” asked Jaime, amused. “Myself, I don’t have a single groat. Tyrion must be in possession of all the Lannister groats. Alas, I only have some buttons. But they are very _fine_ buttons.”

He smiled when Viserys blanched almost gray.

“Yes, very fine buttons, indeed,” he continued. “Dany gave them to me for safekeeping. I, in turn, gave them to my father. They’re such _special_ heirlooms; we wouldn’t want them to go missing, would we? Of course not. All eleven of them have been put into His Grace’s vault in the bank in Lannisport. Very secure place, I think you’ll agree.”

“Eleven?” Viserys said, his voice shaking. “But… there were twelve…”

Jaime smiled. “Not anymore,” he said cheerfully. “One’s gone missing. Can’t imagine where it’s ended up.”

He turned and strode off, whistling, toward the dining room where the rest of the family awaited them.

.

~*~

.

In a canvas tent on the Ghiscari peninsula, an Army lieutenant stared down at the letter he had just finished reading. He reached his other hand into his breast pocket and withdrew a cockade. Even in the dim candlelight, the three-headed dragon embossed upon its central button gleamed. Idly, he rubbed the pad of his thumb over the dragon.

He braced his forearms on his knees, dangling his hands and their contents, and hung his head wearily.

.

the end

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please continue on to part 2

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